


when there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire

by theoneinquisitor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A soft slow burn, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Violence, but like not that slow because i'm impatient, mentions of drug use, some enemies to friends to lovers shit, some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: The first time she meets Bellamy Blake, he's spitting blood into a dirty bathroom sink somewhere on the outskirts of Polis.Runner-Up for Best Enemies/Friends to Lovers Fiction in Bellarke Fanwork Awards 2018





	1. first impressions

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what to tell you except i'm sorry i'm such an angsty mess. this is a test chapter to see how much interest there is. we'll see.

The first time she meets Bellamy Blake, he’s spitting blood into a dirty bathroom sink somewhere on the outskirts of Polis.

“You're a nurse, right?”

Clarke swallows the lump that's been lodged in her throat for the last hour, heart thudding painfully in her chest as she takes in her surroundings. She's still not sure what to think, her mind a jumble of racing thoughts, the loudest of which is wondering just how in the  _hell_ did she end up here?

'Here' being a dingy locker room attached to an abandoned warehouse on a side of town she's never even heard of, let alone stepped foot in.

Actually, that's not fair. There is a fairly ordinary sequence of events that led her to this moment: She returned to her dorm after class to find her elusive roommate sitting at the desk hunched over a mirror as she applied an overly generous amount of eyeliner. Which, in theory, isn't all that strange, except she's seen Octavia Blake exactly two times since they moved in almost a month ago and can count on one hand the number of sentences spoken between them. The first thing ever said to Clarke was: "Don't touch my shit, and I won't touch yours." Not exactly starting off on the right foot, but she was prepared to make it work.

As classes started up, it became clear that Octavia had no interest in getting to know her or even being present for that matter. She never slept in the room and whenever she did make an appearance, it lasted no more than five minutes. Two months in, and Clarke wasn’t even sure she could pick Octavia out of a crowd.

So, when she finds the girl sitting in their shared room doing something as mundane as putting on makeup, she's more than a little confused. Octavia, acting as though this is a normal occurrence, snaps the lid onto her liner and asks, "Want to hang out tonight?"

For any student on their own for the first time at University with no friends or prospects of even having friends, it's hard to say no. But God, she wished she had, considering Octavia's idea of 'hanging out' is watching people beat the shit out of each other.

"Nursing student?” She finally squeaks out, wincing as a pair of petite fingers dig into her arm and pulls her towards the hunched over figure. 

 The sound of blood and saliva hitting the sink has her skin crawling. She stares at his bare back, muscles straining as he holds himself up and lets out a cough. There's a bruise already starting to form on his left side, right near the kidney. If he's lucky, it's only surface level and damage is minimal. He must not have heard them come in, because it isn't until Octavia calls out to him that he turns around. And he looks like shit -- one eye swollen nearly shut, dried blood trailing down his jaw bone and stagnant on his chin. He smiles at them despite the pain, teeth stained with blood, but it doesn't seem to bother him all that much.

“I won," is the first thing he says. 

Recognition finally hits her and he did, indeed, win. When they arrived, she had thought maybe Octavia had snuck them into some kind of club. Maybe a rave. She's never been to one before, but from what she's seen on TV, they're normally held in warehouses, right? But then she spotted the ring, an elevated platform surrounded by familiar ropes, and she quickly realized that this was definitely _not_ some strange college party. Before she could ask exactly what the  _fuck_ was going on, the announcer came on, a bell was ringing, and two men were laying into each other. The place was loud, the fight dirty, and by the fourth round Clarke was watching through her fingers as the other guy hit the mat with a sickening thud, lying motionless as the referee counted to ten.

"Who's this?" 

She blinks, realizing now that he's staring at her. Glaring, actually. She shifts uncomfortably. 

“My roommate, Clarke,” Octavia answers cheerfully, “She's a nurse.”

 “Nursing student,” she corrects again. He wipes his mouth with the towel slung over his shoulder, turning the cotton a bright red. The light above him is busted, so it isn't until he steps forward that she sees the extent of his injuries. Before she's even aware of her movements, she's standing in front of him, taking a closer look at the swollen pocket near his left eye.

“Are you dizzy at all? Light headed? Blurry vision?”

He flinches back from her touch. "Are you serious, O?"

"What? I was worried. Nyko quit and he was the only one that made sure you were taking care of yourself." she explains. 

It all clicks together. Octavia hadn't really cared to hang out with her roommate, just took advantage of the one thing she knew about her. She's got a background in medicine and someone needed to patch up the fight club champion. She should have fucking known better.

  “Octavia, what the fuck?” it comes out equally as strong from both her and the boxer, and it would almost be comical if she weren’t confused and frankly, pissed off. Mostly at Octavia for not telling her exactly what it was they were doing here, but also at herself because hadn't she voluntarily agreed to come out with a practical stranger without questioning where exactly they were going? And isn't that what they teach you  _not_ to do in college? 

 “What?” She holds her hands up innocently, seemingly uninterested in the fact that neither of them particularly asked to be part of this scenario.

 “What do you mean ‘what?’” Clarke isn't much for yelling but her voice is loud enough to echo off the tile floors, “You show up out of nowhere and ask me to hang out even though, before tonight, you've barely said three words to me. You bring me to some shady ass-"

 “Too rough a crowd for you, Princess? I mean it's late and this definitely isn't a Starbucks." She hates how he practically spits the name at her, turning back to the sink and running the towel underneath with a bitter laugh.

 She's never been great with comeback. "Fuck off.”

He smirks, turning back to the sink to ring out the towel. He wads it up in his hands, letting out a low hiss as he presses it against the swollen skin above his eye.

Impulsively, she huffs out, "You need to lay down. It helps the swelling go down faster."

 They lock eyes and she can see that he's quietly assessing her, deciding whether he wants to continue being an asshole or take her advice. She kinks her eyebrow in challenge and gestures towards the long bench to her left. He says something under his breath, but instead of trying to figure it out, all she can do is smirk when he follows her advice and lies down.

 She should call someone, get the fuck out of here, and go back to her dorm. Even if he's being a dick about it, he's right. She doesn't belong here.  And she sure as hell isn't a medical professional. But she has no one to call other than an Uber that is no doubt going to cost an arm and a leg because they're at least 45 minutes outside the city. 

She approaches him tentatively because damn her curiosity for getting the best of her. “Can I look?”

 “Whatever.”

 Not exactly an invitation, but he didn’t say no. To her surprise, he lifts the towel, allowing her access. She gently touches his eye, pushing lightly against the straining skin.

 “What the hell?” He snaps when she increases the pressure, pulling away from her fingers and giving her hand a firm push as she reaches for him again.

“Relax you fucking baby,” she snaps.

 It looks terrible, the skin stretched so unnaturally tight, the skin is almost glossy. A purplish tint is appearing near the temple which is the biggest concern but of there isn't any nausea or dizziness, a concussion can be ruled out.

“Doesn't look like anything is broken,” she concludes, “But once the swelling goes down, your vision should clear. If it doesn't, I would go see a doctor.”

“That's why you're here,” Octavia inserts, sitting on the edge of the bench at his feet, “No insurance.”

She examines him again, eyes trailing down his chest to his abdomen, bruises coloring the bits of tanned skin. Considering how skilled he was out there, she gathers he's been doing this for a while. But it seems crazy that he would do it without any sort of medical backup. After all, one wrong punch to the ribs or the head…

“Kind of dangerous, isn't it?” She wonders out loud, pressing her fingers against his rib cage to feel for any potential damage.

He flinches away when she hits a presumably tender spot. “Yeah, well, amateur boxing doesn't come with a benefits package.”

“No health insurance or pension? Should have gone with MMA, instead.” she replies sarcastically, feeling a slight jolt of pride when his mouth twitches upwards.

His eye seems to be the worst of the injuries, though eye injuries are fickle. It may look fine for now, but tomorrow it could be worse. One wrong move and he could have permanent damage. He may be a dick, but he’s human. He deserves the same care as everyone else.

“Try eye drops if the vision doesn't get better,” she instructs, “I work in the clinic on campus Monday through Wednesday. You can come there and I can probably work something out."

 Of course, the asshole can't just take a good thing. “Way to go, O. You turned us into a charity case.”

“For fucks sake,” she hisses as she stands up, throwing her hands above her head, “I'm just trying to be helpful! That's why your girlfriend brought me here, isn't it?!”

Octavia makes a noise of disgust. “He's my brother.”

 _Nice, Griffin._ That's what she gets for making assumptions. She should have known, the dark hair and dark eyes. The sharp jawlines. They definitely look related. But it’s not like she would know that, considering Octavia hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't know because despite living together I know absolutely fucking nothing about you."

Octavia doesn't say anything, just looks at the floor suddenly interested in her boots. She really has no excuse for it and really, it's Clarke's fault for agreeing to come in the first place. 

She lets out a frustrated breath. “If your brother decides he wants to stop being an ungrateful ass, bring him to the clinic. Campus health insurance is included in your tuition so just make the appointment under your name.”

“It'll be billed to me instead of him?” She looks at her brother, who is still looking less than pleased with Clarke's presence.

“That's right,” she smiles sweetly, “Not charity. Just taking advantage of the system.”

She can tell Octavia is sold on the idea, her shoulders perked up as she looks to her brother for final approval. There's a brief pause where she thinks he's going to agree, considering is own personal health and not this weird vendetta he seems hell bent on creating with her.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he finally says, leaning up and dropping the compress from his eye. It's still swollen, but much less than it had been. _Because my advice is sound, you prick._ He snatches his bag from the bench and pushes past her.

 "Okay, fine." She calls after him, "Don't." She turns to Octavia, "Since I'm unwanted here, I'm going to leave. I have a chemistry exam to study for."

She pulls out her phone to open the Uber app, when she realizes she has no idea where they are.

"Address?" 

She doesn't have to fight very hard for it and Octavia is at least nice enough to walk her out of the place for her Uber. So, there's that.

“I'm sorry,” she says, with a surprisingly soft tone, “He's stubborn and doesn't like asking for help.”

“I get that,” Clarke replies, “I don't either. But is he always such a judgmental dick?”

She can’t shake the way he seemed to write her off so quickly. Like he could take one look at her and understand completely who she is. But he doesn’t know a damn thing about her, so fuck him for thinking he could just shove a label on her head and push her to the side.

The girl laughs, a light chuckle that blends into the wind, “Yeah, just about. But I appreciate you coming tonight, Clarke.”

“Sure,” she replies as the Uber pulls up to the curb, “Nothing like going to an underground boxing match with your super obscure roommate who’s basically a stranger.”

She expects to have the last word, but as she climbs into the SUV, she hears her call out one last time.

“Don't take it personally. I'm not great at making friends. You can see social skills aren't one of the great Blake traits."

“No kidding,” she mumbles as the door shuts.

She watches Octavia Blake through the window as she disappears. Something settles into her stomach, but she isn't quite sure what it is. An ominous foreboding that the Blake's are going to become part of her life, whether any of them want that or not. 

* * *

 

The following Wednesday at the clinic is abnormally slow.  Clarke would be grateful for it, had she not been tasked with cleaning and sterilizing all the exam rooms. Their head physician is particular about the way things are cleaned, meaning if she doesn't do it right, she will most certainly have to go back and do it again. Not exactly her favorite part of the job, but she can’t complain. She knows how lucky she is to even be here. She's hardly even begun the nursing curriculum and this job is typically reserved for third and fourth year students. But she learned how sutures worked before she even learned algebra, the blessing and curse of growing up with doctors for parents. Her mom had called in the favor and while Clarke isn’t keen on taking handouts, she also knows that networking is one of the best things she can do as prospective nursing student.

She's wiping down a set of thermometers when Maya, the other technician on duty, sticks her head into the exam room. "Hey. You got time for a walk-in? I'm off in ten."

She nods gratefully, "Hell yeah, if I have to sterilize on more stethoscope I'm going to go out of my mind."

"Cool, I'll grab the paperwork."

She begins prepping the exam room when Maya comes back, squinting at the clipboard to read the information. "Octavia Blake. Eye irritation."

Clarke almost snorts at  _irritation_. "Bring them back, I'm going to grab a couple things." 

She hasn't seen Octavia in almost a week. She had somewhat hoped she would come back to the dorm and they could talk. She's not sure what she would have said, but it would have been nice to talk like regular fucking college students. She'd be lying if she said her curiosity wasn't high, after all, she did stumble upon some weird fight club. And, admittedly, she did a little bit of research.

Polis, overall, is a nice area. But they had been in a place called Section 17. It's not a great area. Overflowing with drugs and crime, at least, according to the statistics. It's no gated community and that alone makes it fascinating because what the hell are they doing there? Is the fighting legal? Is there money involved? 

Too many questions. 

 She grabs the items she needs and heads back to the exam room, knocking softly on the door. She snatches the file from the cradle as she enters, pretending to be surprise when she sees both siblings. Octavia is perched on the counter, legs kicking against the drawers and next to her, as predicted, her brother.

“Decided to take the charity then?” She can't help herself.

He presses his lips into a thin line, like he wants more than anything to say something smart, but he holds his tongue. _Smart guy_ , she thinks smugly.

She nods to the examination table and he obeys the silent order, sitting down with a loud discontent sigh. She tosses the file on the counter and grabs a pair of gloves, slipping them over her hands before grabbing a small flashlight from the drawer.

The swelling seems to have gone down, thankfully, but even as she approaches him, she can see the eyeball itself is a nasty shade of red.

 “How's the vision?” She asks, pulling down on his cheek to look underneath the eyelid. Dark red. “Look up for me.”

“Blurry."

“Any pain? Look down.”

“A lot of burning.”

By no means is she an eye doctor, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure the issue. He’s lucky really, a burst blood vessel can happen to anyone if they sneeze hard enough. The damage is typically minimal, treatment easy.

“You have a burst blood vessel,” she tells him, “Nothing serious. I can get you some drops, which should help with the burning. But your vision will probably stay blurry until it heals.”

 “That's it?”

“That's it.” she confirms, reaching into the cabinet labeled ‘over the counter’ and grabbing a small bottle of drops, “Use as needed but no more than four times a day. A couple drops should do.”

He takes the bottle, watching her curiously as she begins scribbling things down onto the clipboard. She fills in the vitals section with generic answers. Good heartrate, normal temperature, before writing in the notes at the bottom  _patient left due to family emergency, will return if needed._ The last thing she needs is the physician coming in to examine and perfectly healthy Octavia. Dr. Sinclair is a good guy, she knows he wouldn't actually care if Clarke were rendering free services to someone in need. But she imagines the older Blake would not take to kindly to that. 

“I told you it wasn't a big deal,” he mumbles to Octavia and she hops off the counter with a laugh.

“You've literally done nothing but complain about the burning,” she reveals, and Clarke has to bite her pen not to smile.

He can take a punch to the face but not a little eye sensitivity? Typical. Which reminds her.

“I don't know if you make a habit of the whole fighting thing,” she tells him intentionally, “But I would take at least a week off. You don't want to damage it anymore.”

“That's too bad,” he smirks, “I have a fight tomorrow night.”

“Bellamy...” Octavia warns.  _Bellamy._ So that's his name.

“Look, I came here like you asked. I'll do the drops and whatever. But I have to fight tomorrow, and you know that.”

He doesn't wait for an argument, just opens the door and walks out without another word. Octavia and sighs and moves to follow him but Clarke catches her wrist.

“I'm glad you convinced him to come,” and it's almost an honest statement. He's not pleasant, that much she can conclude. But Octavia, despite her initial stand-offish nature clearly cares about her brother and now she knows there's a way to help him when he needs it. Or gets the hell beat out of him.

“Thanks, Clarke. I'll see you,” she gives a small wave and follows her brother out the door.

The Blake's are really fucking strange, she decides as she cleans up the room. But damn if she isn't curious.

* * *

 

 She wakes up from a dead sleep when she hears her door open. The clock across the room reads something like three a.m. She looks up, her brain still in a fog and thinks maybe she's imagining things.

 Octavia drops a bag near her desk and looks over, “I didn't mean to wake you up.”

 “S’fine,” she answers groggily.

 She crawls into her perfectly made bed, not even bothering to turn down the covers. Clarke leans back into her own pillows, burrowing into her comforter and lets Octavia’s soft breathing lull her back to sleep


	2. theories of social evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He realizes he can't see only a few seconds after the punch lands to his left eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up with starbucks and another chapter two months later. 
> 
> completely unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and hopefully they don't like, ruin the story for you.

“Hierarchies serve an important function. They enable complete strangers to know how to treat one another without wasting the time and energy needed to become personally acquainted.” - Yuval Noval Harari

****

**________________**

 

“In the eighteenth century, there was a focus on human differentiation in societies…”

Clarke finds herself distracted by a particularly shitty doodle in the margins of her notebook, scraping her pen along the page as she tried to get the palms just right. She's always been fascinated by hands, their complicated nature in both art and life. They can do so much, but they're simple. And everyone's hands are unique. Different lines, texture, size. 

She moves below to start another sketch. This time the hands are wrapped in cotton, blood soaking into the knuckles. She remembers how they gripped the sink in Polis, what the hands had done only moments before. 

She stops sketching, trying not to dwell on the memory that keeps crawling it's way back into her mind. She blames it on the sudden frequent presence of her roommate, who has made more than a habit of sleeping in their dorm and attempting idle conversation when they're in the space. 

It's not like they're friends now, neither of them not quite knowing what to say to the other and she still knows next to nothing about her. But they talk, which is more than what it was. Octavia is strange, a particularly frightening blend of introverted and extroverted. Friendly yet somehow not at all. Perhaps it's her sharp features, the look in her eye that can only be read as threatening. Clarke has not seen any evidence of this, but she's almost certain she could kick any and everyone's ass. 

In a different sense, any person who can stay out late, drink, and study all in one night and still pass an exam with flying colors is terrifying.

Twice now Clarke has come back to find Octavia drinking straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels, fingers clicking away against the keyboard as she writes essay after essay. And even in her semi-buzzed state, she writes flawlessly. She once had Clarke look over a paper and she hates to admit that she was impressed by the exceptional use of prose.

Sadly, Clarke has realized that even despite the nuances of this new acquaintancship, she feels less lonely. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the company of others until now and she feels somewhat pathetic. But that’s what happens when you spend years closing yourself off, refusing to let someone else in. 

“Ms. Griffin?” her professor pulls her attention away from the page and she swallows nervously. He crosses his arms loosely, clearly unamused that she hadn’t been paying attention. She silently wishes she had been smart enough not to take the honors course because at least then she could blend in to a lecture hall full of students. When there’s only twenty of them, it’s easy to see when someone isn’t exactly enthralled with the topic.

“Can you tell me more about the theory of social evolution?” he asks.

She clears her throat, nervously bouncing her pen between her fingers, “Um, it’s the view that society is a living system that changes over time.”

She bites her lip to keep from smiling when she sees her professor’s frustration that she actually knew what the hell he was talking about. It’s a good thing she actually did the class reading, it seems.

The rest of class goes by and she manages to somewhat pay attention, taking down notes and not getting called out by her professor. It ends with another short essay assignment on a more in depth look at Lewis Henry and his theory and she thinks she could probably knock it out tonight, leaving her with just a Biology lab standing between her and the weekend. She gathers up her books and stands, feeling a vibration coming from her bag. She reached down to rummage through it, digging for the phone and she isn't watching where she's going. She slams into someones shoulder, effectively dropping her stuff onto the dusty floor.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, as she answers the phone, “Hold on a second.”

The victim of her clumsiness helps her gather her stuff and hands it back, “That’s really good,” he tells her, pointing at the drawing on her open notebook. She glances up and she recognizes him as the guy who sits two seats in front of her, the one that actually enjoys answering questions and she catches talking to the professor after most classes. He runs a hand through his floppy hair and gives her a soft smile.

“Thanks,” she mutters and she heads out the door, pulling her phone up to her ear, “Hello? Mom?”

“Hi honey,” Abby Griffin greets and she absently picks at the side of her notebook with her thumb.

“How are you?” she asks, and she knows it’s a loaded questions. The automatic answer from her will always be that she’s good, but it’s all relative given the reality.

“Good,” she says, as expected, but this time she adds, “I got my sixty day chip today.”

“Oh,” Clarke swallows, pressing the button on the crosswalk sign and walking briskly across the painted white lines, “That’s great.”

Even to her, the enthusiasm sounds forced. She wishes she could be more genuine, she does. But at the same time, she can’t help but think how many times they’ve done this over the years. She wants to be proud of her, but then another part, a small yet very angry part, doesn’t feel anything except impending disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Abby sighs into the phone and she bites her lip anxiously, “I know you don’t deserve this, Clarke. I really am trying to do the right thing here.”

“I know,” she murmurs, sticking the phone between her shoulder and ear so she can dig around for her key fob.

“I just wish there was something I could do to prove to you that this is different.”

She keys in and heads towards the stairwell, remaining silent as she passes the small group of students lounging in the common area. She throws open the door, “It just takes  time.”

“How much time?” her mom asks tiredly, “How many times can I apologize?”

 _Not enough,_ she thinks sadly. But she can’t say that to her, not right now. She wants more than anything for her mom to succeed, to be the mother she was when Clarke was a kid. She wants to be able to forgive and forget, and maybe if the damage were minimal she could. 

The damage was catastrophic. A category five. 

“Look,” she sighs into the phone, keys jingling as she finds the one to her room and sticks it in the lock, “I’m really proud of you for doing this, Mom. But it doesn’t erase…”

She trails off as she opens the door, spotting Octavia on the edge of her bed, lacing up her favorite Doc Martin’s.

“Clarke--”

“I have to go,” she cuts her off, refusing to have this conversation where Octavia can be party to it, “I’ll call you later.”

“Hey,” she greets as she clicks off the phone. She lays her stuff on her desk and flops onto her bed, trying to let her heart rate go semi-back to normal. She flexes her fingers, hoping the small tremors in them will subside before the shaking gets noticed.

“Hey,” Octavia stands, moving over to the mirror and taking out her jacket, throwing over her shoulders, “You okay?”

She sits up and gives her a pathetic smile, “Yeah, just a long day. You headed out?”

Strangely, she finds herself somewhat disappointed, feeling suddenly lonely and in need of some sort of company. Conversations with her mom wear her out, but that’s usually because she sits and thinks over them for hours after they happen. She’s forced to go through her catalogue of memories, often times the worse ones, and it’s not something she particularly enjoys.

“Yeah,” she answers grabbing her keys, “Bell has a fight tonight.”

“How’s his eye?” she finds herself asking. He hadn’t been back to the clinic since she gave him the drops, not that she had expected him to. He had been pretty clear that he’d like to avoid her and her so called ‘charity’ like the plague, even if it meant getting proper treatment. And if she had to guess, she could almost guarantee he hadn’t taken care of it like he was supposed to.

“Looks like shit,” Octavia laughs sarcastically and she finds herself smiling slightly, “I should be back tonight.”

The door opens and before she can stop herself, she calls after her. "Wait!" Octavia turns, eyebrow kinked in question and Clarke stands, shoving her hands in the pocket of her jeans, “Can I come?”

Surprise ghosts over her face briefly, “You sure? I know last time it was a little…”

“No,” Clare replies a little to quickly, “I mean, I was just caught off guard. Plus, I’d like to check your brother’s eye, you know, to make sure he hasn’t made it worse.”

It’s only somewhat of a lie. Part of her thinks ripping off all her fingernails would be less painful then trying to help Bellamy Blake. He’s already made it crystal clear that he doesn’t _need_ help and hearing him spit his judgement at her isn’t exactly her idea of a good time. But neither is sitting here and going through all her own issues in the silence of her tiny dorm room.

“Okay,” Octavia shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

She changes quickly, throwing on an oversized sweater to combat the brisk late September air and stick her I.D and a little cash in her pocket. They make their way to the train station, a still relatively new experience for Clarke. Octavia navigates the crowd like an expert and she has a hard time keeping up, having to catch her breath after the board and stand in the front of the car.

“We’re the second stop,” Octavia reminds her. The ride is quiet, though the silence is more comfortable now. Neither one of them are particularly talkative, something that Clarke appreciates about her. Sometimes she’s just a presence without being overbearing and she finds that it’s nice. They get off and make the walk to the warehouse and she’s a little more aware of her surroundings in the event she wants to go back again.

Instead of taking her to the front like she had last time, Octavia waves her over the back alley and she feels her anxiety thrumming in her blood. She tries to convince herself it’s not as sketchy as it looks, but to no avail. Sneaking into a back alley is the definition of sketchy. They walk to the second door and Octavia bangs on it three times. It swings open and automatically, Clarke steps back. The guy is massive, buff and covered in tattoos, and his eyes lock on hers curiously. But then, as he holds the metal door with one arm, he catches Octavia in his other and she kisses him with a laugh.

Oh. _Oh._ She shifts awkwardly, looking away from the intimate moment.

“Lincoln, this is Clarke,” Octavia introduces once she’s placed back on the ground. Clarke offers an awkward wave and he gives her a surprisingly gentle smile.

“Hi,” he greets and holds the door open for them to enter.

Octavia grabs her arm as they walk, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t mention that to my brother.”

“No problem,” she answers, looking between the two of them as they walk ahead, hands brushing softly against each other. Based on her interactions with the older Blake so far, she gets the feeling that he’s probably incredibly over protective of his little sister and while Lincoln looks at her the like she holds up the sun, she assumes he wouldn’t exactly be happy about this pairing. But it’s none of her business.

They stop once they reach the inside of the bar area, and Lincoln says his goodbye, disappearing into the crowd. Octavia scans the area and reaches back to grab her hand, and she squeezes appreciatively. The last thing she wants to do is get lost. She threads them through the crowd, and Clarke notes that there seems to be a lot more people this time around. Octavia greets a handful of them, with waves or awkward hugs, never letting go of Clarke’s hand.

Finally, they settle on an elevated platform a short distance from the ring. It’s no longer just a mat on the ground, but rather a true boxing ring, with a platform and ropes. Octavia leans over.

“This fight is pretty important,” she explains, “There’s a lot of money on Bell to win, but Mbege is one of the best fighters from Ton D.C.”

Clarke nods, like she understands but in all honesty she’s feeling pretty lost. The bar is stuffy, smelling of sweat and overcrowded bodies. It’s, again, not a place she ever imagined being but she’s interested all the same. She spots a group of guys in the corner, small notebooks open as they confer.

“So people bet on this?” she asks. Octavia nods.

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Sure it is! Most fun things are!”

She stops herself from asking more questions, having lost Octavia's attention to the chaos of the crowd. Instead she wonders silently, trying to figure out what the hell this even is.

How do people get involved in this kind of thing? Underground fighting? Gambling? Surely, you don’t just stumble upon it.

She hesitates before deciding to ask, “How did you get involved in all of this?”

She see’s Octavia falter briefly, eyeing her warily as if thinking over the answer very carefully. It only makes her wonder more.

“Bell’s been fighting since he was a kid,” is all she says. And she assumes it’s supposed to mean that he’s been training since he was kid, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. She gets the feeling there’s much more to it.

She doesn’t have time to dwell, however, as the announcer enters  the ring and the crowd grows eerily silent despite the warehouse being packed. He greets them, going over proper protocol in case of emergency or worse: if the authorities show up. Clarke glances at Octavia, who is rapidly typing a text to someone, clearly unbothered by the thought. She seems to be the only one, actually, clearly made uneasy by the idea of what they’re doing is so illegal, they have a contingency plan if law enforcement pops up.

“In the visiting corner,” he calls out, “We have the small, but incredibly lethal John Mbege!”

The crowd's reaction is a mix, the booing overshadowing what few cheers the boy received. He steps into the ring and the first thing she notices is that he is quite small, but he’s focused and his size doesn’t seem to matter to him.

“In the home corner,” and the announcer is much more animated now, “We have the hometown hero, the marauder, the one and only, Bellamy Blake!”

The crowd roars to life, yelling as he steps in with his fist raised in the air. He looks completely at home in the ring, like it’s the place he’s meant to be and she hates the way she feels drawn to him, her eyes refusing to look away. The two men touch gloves in the middle after the referee explains the rules of the fight and return to their corners.

And as the bell rings, even she can’t deny the small amount of adrenaline to courses through her body when the first punch is thrown.

****

**________________**

 

He realizes that he can’t see only a few seconds after the punch lands to his left eye.

The ringing in his ears blocks out the thud his body makes as it hits the mat and his glove goes up automatically to cover the swollen socket. He feels slightly dizzy, silently cursing himself for making such a beginners mistake.

 _Never get faked out by a half-assed jab,_ he can hear Indra scolding him from miles away.

Though, in his defense, it’s not like his vision was great prior to the match anyway.

_Fuck._

The ringing in his ears fades just in time to hear the bell ding and he pushes himself up with a groan, stumbling back to his corner and flopping onto the small wooden bench. He hisses when he feels something cool press against the growing bulge, but remains still.

“Jesus, Bellamy,” Murphy whistles as he presses the ice to his burning skin, “You look like shit.”

“I told you,” Miller sighs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a cotton towel, “You should have sat this one out.”

He grunts in protest as his friend sprays some water into his mouth. Realistically, he knows he shouldn’t have agreed to this fight. He still hasn’t fully recovered from the last two and it seems like his eye has some sort of special target painted on it. But taking time off to heal isn't an option.

“You’re going to do permanent damage if you keep this up,” Miller continues, frowning at him from his place behind the ropes. He doesn’t it say it, but he wants him to throw in the metaphoric towel.

It’s like he doesn’t know Bellamy at all.

“I’ve had worse,” he growls, shoving the mouthpiece back in, preparing for the fifth round. No one argues. They’d be stupid to.

They all know he doesn’t listen.

He takes his stance, taking the moments before the bell to examine his opponent. His lip is split in the corner, and he can see purple faintly spreading across his cheek even in the dim lighting. But what excites him the most is that he can see that’s he’s tired.

Mbege is quick on his feet and nimble, but after five rounds his shoulders shouldn’t be sagging, his fists shouldn’t be sitting at his rib cage. It’s bad practice and he’s going to take advantage of it.

The bell sounds and Bellamy wastes no time moving in, making sure his one good eye is aware at all times. Mbege throws the first punch but it lags and falls short. He tries again and Bellamy moves, letting the punch graze the top of his shoulder. He throws a jab in return to feel him out.

There’s something natural to fighting for Bellamy, almost like it was something he was meant to do. He may not have figured that out under normal or healthy circumstances, but who does, really? Most people fight because they have to, not because they want to.

He bides his time, waiting for his opponent to be really and truly exhausted. He lets him land a body shot, trying not to flinch when his ribs protest the contact. He wants him to think he’s one, because when you’re tired and you think you’re winning, you make mistakes.

And he does.

Mbege tries to throw another left hook like the one that knocked him down, but he’s prepared. He dodges, and uses the opening to land and uppercut right underneath his strong chin. Even over the small sounds of the crowd, he can hear the man’s teeth clank together at the impact and he falls back, arms spread as he lands with a bounce on the mat.

He doesn’t get up.

The crowd cheers after the referee finishes his countdown and Bellamy lifts his glove in victory, shaking the sweat from his hair and letting the familiar feeling wash over him. It’s not that he’s used to _always_ winning. But it’s been a while since he hasn’t and he may or may not be a little cocky about it. He’s earned it. More than anything he’s really fucking earned it.

By the time they officially announce his win, a formality mostly for all the bookies to collect their cash and promptly bet it on the next fight, the adrenaline is starting to wear off and the splitting heading begins. He pushes his way through the crowd, hands sliding along his shoulders in congratulations and sexual offers, which on any normal occasion he would absolutely be interested in. But right now he just needs a bag of ice and four tylenol. And maybe a shot of vodka.

He finds his bag on the coat hook, the tattered duffel hanging on by just a thread. He pulls at down and takes it to the bench, pulling out his change of clothes and aspirin. His fingers brush over a familiar glossy paper and impulsively, he pulls it out.

Aurora Blake was beautiful, her dark hair flowing down her back, her eyes full of love and life. She was so good, better than the world and everyone in it deserved. Better than what her life gave her. He puts it back as the knot forms in his stomach.

But his mind still wanders. What would she say about him now? Would she be proud of all he's done? Or ashamed that he's chosen to make his living the one way she always hated?

 _What's so hard about walking away?_ She had asked after his first fight. He was twelve and one of the assholes in his class had been pushing him all year, talking about his ragged clothes or his lack of a father-- its it's not like that isn't common knowledge. He snapped and there was something so freeing about feeling his knuckles against another. It scares him sometimes. But, he thinks, it also keeps him sane.

He changes slowly and methodically, avoiding sudden movements so as not to further increase the pain. He pulls out the small of scissors to cut the wrappings from his hands when the door.flies open again.

Seeing that same long dark hair, he smiles. His sister is a spitting image of their mother, and a free spirit, too. Getting her to go to college had been a pain in the ass, constantly arguing about why its it's much better for her in the long run. She's stubborn and hard headed, but she went and he’s happy, because it’s not the kind of life he could have for himself but he can at least give that to her. Even if it means picking up extra fights.

“Fuck, Bell,” she sighs, gently turning his face so she can see the wound in all its glory. It’s then then that his good eye focuses behind her.

The nurse stands in the doorway, hands shoved in her pockets awkwardly looking only further out of place than she had last time.

“Seriously, O?” he grounds out, his frustration flaring at the mere sight of her. He went to the clinic to appease his sister and figured that would be the end of that. He definitely  didn’t expect her to be here, but he should have. Octavia doesn't know how to let things go, sometimes.

Truthfully, he can’t explain what it is. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, like someone privy to a life that’s never involved sketchy fight clubs and dirty bars. A life where places like this are a spectacle and not a necessity. It makes his hands ball into fists, fingernails dig into his palms.

“She wanted to come,” his sister shrugs before turning to Clarke, jerking her head in motion.

“Entertained yet, Princess?” he spits before can help it. His tone is biting, meant to intimidate her. Meant to show that _she’s_ the outcast here.

Her eyes harden and she crosses her arms with a huff. He’s stricken a nerve, he realizes. Good.

“Can you be civil for five seconds?” Octavia groans, pinching his shoulder in reprimand before looking back at the blonde, “Forgive him. He’s an ass “

“So I’ve learned,” she grumbles back. Her eyes scan his face, assessing the damage and he feels uncomfortable under her stare. He can feel judgement rolling off her in waves and he has to bite his tongue not to snap.

 _You’re judging her, too,_ a small voice says but he pushes it away. That’s _different._

“You need a doctor.” she tells him softly.

****

He snorts, “We've been over this.”

She regards gun carefully before stepping closer. He flinches when she reaches for him, but let's her look nonetheless. Her fingers are cold, but soft. She grazes the skin delicately, pulling her lip under her teeth in concentration.

“I’m serious,” she says again, “You may have done some serious damage this time.”

“Thanks, doc,” he finally snaps, pulling his head away from where he’d been leaning unintentionally into her touch. Her eyes flash and she replaces her hand.

A sharp pain pulses through his head.“What the _fuck!"_

“I told you to take a break,” and she’s actually reprimanding him, like a disappointed parent. He stands, rolling his shoulders back and ignoring the pain as best he can.

“Well, since you’re not a doctor, I don’t take orders from you,” he grounds out and tries to level her with his stare. _Back the fuck up,_ he tries to say.

“Yeah, something tells me you wouldn't listen to me even if I were.”

He smirks, “Good assumption.”

She moves back and crosses her arms. He expects her to back down, to just let him be stubborn and move along but instead, she steps into his space again and grabs his chin. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t startled by her courageous touches, how she doesn’t seem phased by his shitty attitude -- even Octavia usually just flips him off and lets him stew.

“I have a friend at Arkadia Memorial,” she says finally, twirling one of her golden curls between her fingers, cocking her hip like she’s daring him to argue again.

Fuck her, he decides. Like she can just tell him what to do.

“Are you getting something from this?” he asks. He has a hard time believing someone like her would just want to help someone like him out of the kindness of her heart. He’s not a spectacle, not a charity case to make her feel good. And neither is his sister for that matter.

“Bellamy,” Octavia warns, stepping in between them as though she senses what’s coming. He doesn’t care at this point.

“No, O, I want to know,” he says hotly, “Why the hell do you want to come around here, huh? For some weird instant gratification? Because you want to feel useful?”

" _B_ _ellamy,”_ Octavia hisses at him again but his eyes are glued to Clarke as her nostrils flare and she takes a step back.

“Do you not get enough praise in your college classes? From your parents?”

Her face contorts into something mirroring hurt and anger, but she tries to fix it quickly. He can tell she doesn’t want him to know he’s getting to her but it’s too late.

“You don’t know jack shit about me,” she whispers.

Doesn’t he though?

“Let me just make one thing clear,” he tells her, “You can pretend all you want, but I see right through you. Stay the fuck away from here because I refuse to let me or my sister be some kind of story you tell all your friends."

He doesn't let her answer, instead pushes past them and out of the locker room. He should go home and rest. But he doesn't, instead finding his way to the bar and ordering a double shot.

A pair of manicured fingers scrapes against his arm after orders. They belong to a particularly leggy brunette, he thinks he’s he’s seen her before but can't quite place her. She gives him a smile and he orders her a drink, too.

He tries not to think about the nurse or the way she looked at him, but even in a haze of alcohol it doesn’t leave his mind for the rest of the night. For the first time, someone saw him for what he was.

A monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways, i'll try not to make you wait for the next update for a million years again. lemme know what you think! 
> 
> p.s: shout out to everyone for your kind words in the comments. i am so beyond flattered! <3
> 
> come hang on[tumblr!](http://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com/)


	3. the superiority complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this, an update?  
> enjoy!

“An encounter with other cultures can lead to openness only if you can suspend the assumption of superiority, not seeing new worlds to conquer, but new worlds to respect.” – Mary Catherine Bateson

 

 

* * *

  _He hears the familiar crackling before it shuts down all together. His baby sister is cradled in his lap, the faint sound of her suckling her thumb now deafening in the silence. She’s too old for it, he wants to tell her, but who is he to ruin what makes her feel safe?  He pushes her gently onto the couch and she stirs briefly, only to roll over and snuggle further into the ratty cushions. His knee hits the coffee table with the thunk as he fumbles in the dark, and he curses to himself as he hobbles to the front door. He cracks it open, peering into the buzzing hallway, his fear confirmed at the sight of the fluorescent lights. He sighs and shuts the door again, reaching out to feel his away around the cramped apartment._

_The Blake’s are no strangers to power outages -- their electricity is turned off every few months and most of the time his mother likes to pretend she simply forgot to pay the bill. But Bellamy is older now, he sees the bills strewn across the kitchen counter and watches her pick at her eyebrows anxiously. Just last month, their water had been turned off for four days and they had been forced to use their neighbors shower._

_“Our shower broke,” Aurora told the family of five next door and despite having a full apartment of screaming toddlers, they welcomed them in and Bellamy has to be grateful for that. Going to school smelling like stale cigarette smoke and must wasn’t exactly something he had been looking forward to. He gets made fun of enough as is._

_“Bellamy,” his sister’s meek voice interrupts him as he climbs on the stove, rifling around the old cupboard for their emergency tea candles._

_“It’s okay,” he calls out to her, crawling down and spreading the candles around the small space. He finds a book of matches on the counter and strikes one._

_“The power again?” she asks and he hates how she knows, how she’s five years old and already carries the burden of her family on her shoulder. He’ll be damned._

_“Storm knocked it out,” he lies, “Go back to sleep.”_

_She listens, thankfully, and he finishes lighting the candles so that the kitchen is dancing in small flickers. He doesn’t bother to move Octavia, just sits on the floor in front of the couch, leaning against it and picking up the tattered book lying on the table. It’s one of his favorites, his mom used to read to him every night before she began working long hours. She picks up extra shifts at the diner and he hates that she works nearly fourteen hours a day only to continue struggling with supporting her family. It’s not fair because she works so hard._

_Octavia shifts on the couch and he watches her for a moment, wishing more than anything she could have a better life. She was never part of the plan,at least, from what Bellamy was able to gather. He was only seven when she was born, but he remembers hearing his mom and O’s dad fight late at night. He remembers the day he walked out, refusing to have anything to do with his kid. And when she was born, he sat next to the bathtub as she screamed, having been too late to make it to a hospital (though now, Bellamy has to wonder if it was more to do with costs than time)._

_HIs stomach turns and something heavy settles on his shoulders as shadows cross the walls and his sister’s soft breathing is the only sound aside from the distant rumble of cars outside their window. He can’t let this keep happening, he decides. This is no way to live -- his mom being gone for most of the days, his sister being fed macaroni and cheese on the nights they have dinner and suffering through power outages. No longer can he sit idly by. He thinks of the kid on the corner, the one who puts his arm around Bellamy’s thin shoulders every morning as he walks to school and tells him to make something of himself. The one who says he can help him with his problem because somehow he just knows what’s going on with him._

_“I used to be like you,” he told him once, rubbing a knuckle fondly against his scalp, “Look at me now.”_

_He opens the book, straightening the folded page marking his progress, and resolves to talk to him first thing in the morning. It’s time he provide for his family. His responsibility._

 

**  
**

 

He doesn’t have to set an alarm any more. His body is programmed to wake up at five a.m, before the sun and the birds and most of the world. It never fails and today is no different. He wakes with a start, an unfamiliar weight covering his stomach. He tries to sit up and he realizes it’s an arm, smooth, toned, but petite and he has to hold in a groan. It’s not like him to let people stay the night, typically sending them on their way not long after he’s finished with him. It’s better that way, mostly because the last thing he needs is attachment. But also because occasionally, he wakes in a cold sweat with the sheets tangled around him and that kind of vulnerability belongs to no one.

He pushes the arm off and the girl -- Bree, he thinks her name is -- only lets out a soft breath before rolling over, her bare ass peeking out from beneath the cover. He can only roll his eyes. Or, eye. He throws his leg over the bed and reaches up, fingertips gently brushing against the swollen socket. Admittedly, he’s a bit concerned about it. The swelling isn’t going down and it’s now painted in a nasty shade of purple, almost black at the corner of his eye, and it hurts. Really fucking hurts.

He reaches down and grabs his boxers where they lay discarded on his floor. He stands, stretching so that his back cracks as he reaches up. He aches, a dull annoyance in his rib cage and near his torso. Mbege managed to get a couple of body shots off on him and they definitely left their mark. The first couple of days were the worst, and he deeply considered going to the hospital for a solid thirty seconds. It was a moment of weakness, mostly induced by the throbbing in his face, but he managed to get over it. He’s had worse.

Thankfully, he made decent money on that fight, allowing him to take the next week and a half to recover. It was a fairly important fight as far as the underground scene goes and while he will never understand why, Bellamy was the underdog in this fight. It suited him just fine, having made away like a bandit in profit, but as far as his ego goes, it hurt a little. He’s been doing this for years now and people still don’t understand what he’s capable of.

They ought to know now. Five rounds and Mbege was knocked out cold.

When he shuffles into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee maker, he finds it already brewing. Miller is hunched over the kitchen table, scribbling in his notebook and typing rapidly into his phone. He grunts in greeting, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring his coffee.

"You been to sleep?" he asks. 

"Nah," Miller shrugs, "Just got back from Bryan's actually."

"Why not just stay that night? Or are you guys still pretending that you don't have feelings for each other."

Miller stops typing to glare at him. "We're taking it slow."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say."

He types something else into his phone before scribbling it down with a satisfied smile. "Bills are covered for the month and we actually got some to spare thanks to the payout yesterday."

"And did Murphy pay the electric or did he conveniently forget again?" Bellamy asks, thinking of the third roommates tendency to 'forget' his portion of the bills. He does it because he knows it'll get covered and he's a cockroach.  He's just lucky he's a likable cockroach.

 Miller chuckles, “Believe it or not, he did."

He moves forward, a sharp pain shooting through his skull at the sudden movement and he groans, reaching his hand up to hold the sensitive skin. He hears a chair scrape against the floor before a hand grabs his wrist.

“You need to get this looked at,” Miller confirms, sounding much like a concerned parent. He’s usually not one to waste time telling Bellamy what to do, knowing good and well he’s too stubborn to listen.  But something in the way he sets his lips into a thin line as he merely looks at the injury and concern etches into his normally hard expression makes Bellamy falter slightly.

“It’s not that bad,” he argues weakly, grabbing his cup and moving over to the table. He takes his roommates chair and pulls the folded newspaper from underneath the calculations.

Miller scoffs, “Oh, it’s bad.”

He doesn’t mention anything more about it, just sits across from him and plays with his phone, more than likely scrolling through NPR because as much shit as he gives Bellamy for reading the newspaper, he actually cares about what’s going on in the world as much as he does. Bellamy just so happens to prefer to read about it the old fashion way.

He finishes his coffee and places his mug in the sink, moving over to the dryer and yanking the door open. He finds his sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulling them on quickly, feeling more determined than ever to get out of the house.

“Murphy is going to kill you for wearing that,” Miller comments and he glances down, smirking when he realizes it’s the elusive third roommate’s favorite t-shirt.

“He’ll live,” he says and grabs his phone from the counter, grunting when he realizes it’s on it’s last leg of battery. _That’s what you get for bringing someone home,_ he thinks. He had just tossed it to the side without bothering to plug it in, his hands otherwise occupied.

“Can I borrow your headphones?” he asks, already picking them up from where they sit in front of their owner.

“Go get yours!”

Bellamy looks down the hall, where the door to his room is closed tightly, and sighs. "I’d rather not.”

It takes him a second to put it together, but then he’s glaring and Bellamy takes the opportunity to snag the headphones and head towards the door.

“What do I tell her, you jackass?” he calls as he pulls on his running shoes, annoyance painting his voice. Not like he isn’t used to this kind of shit.

“Tell her I’ll call her,” he finishes tying them and slips outside, faintly hearing the ‘fuck you’ that follows him.

So he probably won’t call her. But he made that pretty clear to her before he brought her home -- he doesn’t do attachment, at least, not the romantic kind. Never has.

He steps onto their porch, fiddling with his phone and shuffling his songs. He sticks it in his pocket, before pulling his leg up for a stretch. This is his favorite part of the day -- running. It’s the closest thing to peace he’s ever had, just time made specifically for him where he can forget the past, forget the future, and just be. Existing to go.

But of course, he doesn’t make it far. This is the first time he’s gone for a run, always taking a couple days to recuperate before straining his body again after a fight. So he hadn’t thought about how much the pain in his eye would affect him until he’s only halfway down the block and an intense throbbing forces him to slow down. He stops to catch his breath, the pain nearly knocking the wind out of him. It subsides slightly, and he resolves to make the morning run a jog instead, but even that movement jostles the pain.

 _Fucking prick,_ he curses Mbege, though really it wasn’t that great of a punch. He just happened to kick him while he was down.

He considers going back for a moment, but because he’s a coward and doesn’t want to face the one night stand he accidentally let sleep over, he just walks. It’s a brisk morning and the clouds are beginning to turn a dull pink, the sun beginning it’s start to the day. His body wants to move so he makes his way to the gym -- he’s supposed to be on rest until Wednesday, Indra’s orders, but she can’t be that mad if he wants to lay a few hits on the bag.

When he arrives at the gym, it’s still dark inside. He prefers it this way sometimes, solitary. It’s nice to be alone with your thoughts, to be able to focus your energy on an object. He usually only comes this early after a particularly nasty nightmare, or when he’s feeling overwhelmed. But this morning, he feels a similar energy thrumming in his veins. He can’t quite place it -- frustration, maybe. Subconscious anger because that’s his problem, isn’t it? He’s always angry.

He wraps his knuckles and gloves up, pulling a spare pair hanging from the wall. He pumps them together, the material echoing around the gym as they smack together. He takes his stance and jabs. One. Two.

_I used to be just like you, kid._

One. Two. Three.

_How would you like to make some real money?_

Hit. Hit. Hit.

_The water’s off again._

His eye begins to throb.

_Possession of stolen property, one year. Redistribution of stolen property, six months._

He grits his teeth as pain rips through his head.

_He’s been helping us, baby. While you’ve been gone…_

“Bellamy!”

Indra’s voice snaps through the air, and it’s only then that he realizes his music has gone silent. His phone must have died. He turns, breaths coming out in short bursts, as she approaches. She’s always hard to read, face never betraying her thoughts and quite frankly, she frightened him for a long time. But then she became a sort of surrogate caretaker, though mostly because of her fondness for his sister, and he respects her more than anyone.

When she reaches him, he shrinks back slightly under her gaze. The lights are clicking on and he squints at the new brightness. Her teeth snap audibly and he sighs, knowing what she’s going to say before she says it.

“You need to get this looked at,” she demands, turning his chin with her rough fingers, eyes trailing over the bruising.

“I’m fine,” he pulls away and she glares daggers at him.

“And I’m the Queen of France,” she remains stoic.

“Congratulations.” 

She rolls her eyes, moving past him to open floor space on the left, beginning to grab mats and place them on the ground. Her gym is her pride and joy. Every morning she sets up, every night she takes things apart and cleans them. Bellamy helps sometimes, though it’s become more irregular since he increased his matches. He often wonders where he would be without her, but it’s a dark path to travel in his mind.

In more ways than one, this place saved his life.

He takes off the gloves and helps her with the mats wordlessly. He tries to ignore the incessant pain of his eye, but it only seems to be growing, a headache quickly beginning to form. He grits his teeth and helps her put out all the equipment as well, ignoring the pointed looks she keeps sending his way. She doesn’t say anything again, even when he picks up the jump rope and starts doing rounds, only to stop two seconds in because _of course_ that was bad idea.

He thinks he’s off the hook until the trainees begin to filter in, all of whom are teenagers like he used to be, aching for a fight. They’re all stubborn and proud and when they comment on his face, it’s in excitement and awe. This seems to be the last straw for Indra.

“He’s a prime example of what not to do,” she snaps, “Now, run your laps.”

The groups disperses with a grumble and Bellamy takes that as a sign to sneak out, but she stops him with a single threat.

“Either you call your sister,” she warns, “Or I will.”

He’s seen this scenario play out before -- the results will always be worse when Indra calls because not only does he have to deal with the initial issue, but also the fact that _he_ didn’t tell Octavia first. Except, this is different because she’s not just asking him to call his sister. She’s telling him that he needs to get help.

“I know your sister has a friend that offered you treatment,” she confirms and his shoulders tense, hating everything about this.

“You and I both know that nothing ever comes without a price,” he tries to argue. He thinks of the nurse and how she treated him once, gave him the eye drops and the exam without batting an eyelash. But he’s skeptical because no one does things out of the kindness of their heart. He’s learned the hard way that there is always an expectation and that it doesn’t always have to be monetary. He doesn’t trust her as far as he could throw her and the last thing he wants is for his sister to get wrapped up in that, whatever it may be.

“So, I’m calling her,” she pulls her phone from her pocket and dials, holding it up to her ear with,  what Bellamy swears is, a smirk.

He can hardly believe she’s doing this, feeling completely childlike under her stare. He juts his hand out as he hears her pick up on the other line and Indra hand’s the phone over.

“Hey, O,” he greets.

“It six thirty in the morning,” she growls into the phone, “You better be dying.”

Never quite the morning person like him. His fingers pick at one another habitually. “I’m fine. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” her voice clears and he imagines she’s sitting up in bed, eyes narrowed as she tries to figure out if he’s actually okay.

“I, uh…” Indra taps her foot impatiently and he has to fight the urge to flip her off. “My eyes been bothering me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuck, not her, too. He can hear the ‘I told you so’ coming from a mile away. He grits his teeth, feeling completely embarrassed by this whole ordeal.

“Just ask her, O,” he huffs out, unable to form a fully coherent request at this time. He’s pissed because this is exactly what he didn’t want and the two people supposed to have his back are encouraging it.

“Ask who what?”

If he could jump through the phone right now, he would, “Please, don’t make me say it.”

Silence.

He groans and this time when Indra smiles, he does flip her off, respect your elders be damned.

“Ask your roommate if she can schedule with the doctor,” he mutters.

Octavia is practically giddy when she speaks again, “What’s her name?”

“Octavia,” he hisses, completely finished with these games she keeps playing. His pride has already been swallowed whole.

“Her name,” she repeats.

He hates the way it feels on his tongue, natural and smooth, “Clarke.”

“I’ll call you back with details,” she sing-songs into the phone and the call ends. He hands the phone back to Indra with the harshest glare he can muster, but she’s unfazed.

“One day, you’ll thank me,” she tells him and then call out to her students, effectively dismissing him. He stomps away from the gym, fuming all the way home. He plugs his phone in and hops in the shower, his room thankfully bare of the blonde from the bar. He scrubs at his face, wishing that the steam would somehow cure the swelling so he could avoid this whole scenario.

He isn’t sure what comes over him when he’s around the nurse. _Clarke._ She’s done nothing but help him at this point despite him being the world’s biggest jackass and yet he still finds his aversion to her consuming. She walks into a room and he just grows uneasy, like she’s a wild card and he’s never sure when she’s going to show her true colors.

 _You always expect the worst of people,_ a small voice tells him This expectation was learned, in the worst ways possible so he has every right to feel wary of strangers. But more than that, he likes to think he can read people well, a skill learned for survival. Yet, he can’t get a read on her. Sure, one look at her and she practically screams silver spoon, but there’s something else. Something more and that’s what makes him cautious. Combative, even.

When he gets out of the shower, his phone is powered on again. He checks it and sighs when he sees the first text.

 

 **O:** Be at Ark Memorial at 11:15 <3

****

 

The smell overwhelms him the moment he steps foot into the hospital. It’s sterile and thick, clogging his throat and he tries to swallow it. It’s been years since he was in one of these, his last memory one he doesn’t really like to revisit. It’s all cold skin and flat lines. He pushes it away, reaching for his phone and checking texts. It tells him to meet on the fourth floor, which registers as an oddly vague detail but he doesn’t think much of it.

Until he reaches the fourth floor and Octavia is nowhere to be found. Just an annoyingly familiar crown of golden curls. He steps out of the elevator and approaches the empty desk, where Clarke is leaning casually and talking to someone like she’s known them her whole life. He steps into her line of sight and she turns, eye flashing in something unreadable and he feels his palms begin to sweat.

_Get it together, Blake._

“Hey. " she greets curtly and he shifts uncomfortably. They didn’t exactly end their last interaction on a positive note and he thinks she must be remembering that vividly.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but it snaps shut. He doesn’t exactly regret what he said. In fact, based on her cool demeanor and the way in which she freely moves about the hospital, it seems his assessment was more than correct. He watches as she says something to the charge note before brushing past him. He pauses for a moment, definitely not distracted by the way her chest accidentally brushed against his arm, and she turns.

“You coming?”

He stumbles in behind her, following past the waiting room where people a sprinkled across the generic chairs, and through a double set of doors. She walks with confidence and purpose, which should put him at ease but it does quite the opposite.

“Is this the part where you kill me?” he tries to joke as they move down a shaded corridor. She stops at the end of the hallway and pushes the door open, gesturing him inside the room.

“Don’t I wish,” she mutters, following behind him. The room is an exam room similar to the one in the clinic, though much larger. It’s cut in half, one side holding the exam equipment privvy to most doctors office and the other walled off, cautioning against radiation. She pulls out her phone and sends off a quick text before leaning against the counter, drumming he fingers against the fake granite.

His curiosity is getting the best of him, “Can I ask you something?”

She regards him warily, “Depends. Are you going to pretend you know everything about me?”

He tries not to grind his teeth audibly. She’s feisty, he’ll give her that. He had pegged her as the kind of person to roll over and show her belly when people confronted her, at least, that was before he met her. Octavia never really mentioned her being anything more than quiet.

“Look,” it’s not the best way to start a semblance of an apology, he admits, “I don’t know much about you, but I have a pretty good read on people.”

_Except you._

“I’m just looking out for my sister,” he continues, “And you’re right, I don’t know you. So why should I trust you?”

She pauses for a moment, pulling one of the drawers idly in and out, “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

That takes him by surprise, her expression not giving anything away as she stares at him. But then she laughs, sarcastic and biting.

“For the record, I don ‘t trust you either,” she snaps the drawer shut, “But Octavia is cool and she asked for my help, so here I am. You can take it or leave it whenever you please.”

She doesn’t leave much room for argument, her statement definitive and casual.  So the best he can say is, “Okay.”

She lets out a long breath, and it almost sounds relieved that he’s not fighting her, “Okay.”

The door opens and a man walks in, and Bellamy swears he can’t be but a few years older than him. He gives him a nod before greeting Clarke with a warm hug and a smile.

“It’s good to see you,” he tells her once he’s pulled back, “I talked to Abby a couple of days ago…”

If Bellamy would have blinked, he would have missed the falter in her smile at the name, the slight shake of her head, and the abrupt ending to the man’s story. Now, he’s intrigued.

“So, this is the guy?” he changes course, whirling around on Bellamy. He backs up slightly.

“I’m Dr. Jackson,” he introduces, holding out his hand, “I’m going to try and help you out as best I can. 

 _I’m going to do what I can for free which may not be a lot,_ he reads between the lines. He nods and Dr. Jackson gestures for him to have a seat. He pulls on gloves and Bellamy finds himself somewhat grateful that Clarke makes no move to leave, just perching up on the counter and handing Jackson tools like she’s been doing it her whole life.

He examines the swollen flesh and he hisses as the fingers press into the sensitive skin. He makes small grunts of acknowledgement and turns his face every which way, opening his eyelid and having him roll his eyeball around.  

“I’ll take a few x-ray’s just to make sure nothing's broken,” he explains, “Based on initial exam, it seems like you may just have some tissue damage but I’d like to be sure.”

It’s a fairly painless process, just a lot of remaining still and bright flashes. When he comes out, Clarke is gone and he finds himself panicking slightly. If she’s not here, will he expect payment? Insurance? Did she set him up?

_Always thinking the worst._

“She went to get the film developed. The tech's like her so they won't ask questions.” The doctor tells him, as if reading his mind. Bellamy just nods and sits on the exam table, leg bouncing nervously as the silence fills the room. The smell is starting to get tot him, the gray walls and the hum of machines. He needs to distract himself.

“How long have you known, Clarke?” he asks, mostly for the sake of something to talk about but once it comes out, he finds himself genuinely curious.

Jackson shrugs, “I’m not sure. Five or six years, maybe. She used to come here with her mom all the time and worked here a couple summers doing technician stuff.”

That explains how comfortable she seems here.

“Her mom worked here?” he questions and that question seems to throw the doctor off.

“Yeah,” he lets out a low chuckle, “Her mom is Abby Griffin.”

He’s sure that name is supposed to ring a bell, but he's luckily avoided this place in the three years they've been near town. "I'm not from here."

“That explains why you didn’t know that,” he laughs, “She was a surgeon for years here. Extremely good at her job. She actually trained me, so…”

 _Was._ That word sticks out to him. He’s about to ask what he means, feeling like maybe it would give some insight into the mystery that seems to surround her when the door swings open. Clarke enters once more with a large envelope in hand, giving it to Jackson with a smirk.

“They’re always so much faster when you ask,” he jokes.

She smiles and his stomach does something funny. He passes it off as nerves.

“It’s because they like me more.”

He puts the pictures on the wall, illuminating them and remaining eerily quiet. He examines them for what feels like eternity before flipping of the light and turning to him, “Nothings broken.”

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until it comes out in a long exhale. His eyes find Clarke's and she looks almost as relieved as he does. Strange.

“You’ve got some significant tissue damage,” Jackson tells him, “I would let it heal for at least two more weeks before doing anything strenuous. Make sure the swelling goes down -- Tylenol should help with the inflammation and pain.”

He turns to Clarke next, “Bring him back if it doesn’t start to look better in the next week.”

She nods, “Thanks again, Jackson.”

Bellamy thanks him and he takes his leave, discarding his gloves and sharing a brief look with Clarke. Her eyes seems to shake slightly, but she nods and with one last smile directed at him, he leaves. She grabs the door and holds it open, pulling the x rays from the wall as she goes. She hands them over to her.

“Normally, they would keep those in your file but…” she trails off.

“I don’t have one,” he finishes for her. They leave the way they came, navigating dark crevices and corridors before finally making it to the elevator. His brief conversation with Jackson sticks in his head and he glances at her, wondering.

“You going to visit your mom while your here?” he blurts out and her head snaps over quickly, eyes raised in a slight panic. Her facade is shaken.

She tries to put it back together quickly, “She’s not here today.”

He hums in response, knowing it’s none of his business and yet finding himself wanting to know more. What is the daughter of a surgeon doing helping someone like him sneak around the hospital and get free treatment? There has to be something there.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks as the elevator dings at the ground floor, and it’s not accusatory this time. Just curious.

She steps out, and bites her lip as she thinks about it. He waits, watching her as she stares out the window, avoiding his gaze as she answers, “I know what it’s like to be backed into a corner, alright? And if I can help someone out of the corner, even when they’re a dick, I’m gonna do it.”

He didn’t expect that answer. Didn’t expect his chest to ache suddenly at the softness of her tone, the way memories seem to coat her explanation. He feels his initial disdain dissipate then. Into what, it’s hard to say, but he realizes that he’s been pretty shitty all things considered.

“Thanks,” he tells her finally, unsure of what more he can offer at this point, “I really do appreciate it.”

“Maybe next time you’ll take my advice when I tell you not to fight, yeah?” her lips quirk up into just the tiniest of smiles and he tries not to focus on the _next time._

He shrugs, echoing his previous sentiment, but this time without bite and with an easiness that wasn’t there before, “Since you’re not a doctor, I don’t take orders from you.”

Something shifts in the air, but he can't put his finger on it. And though he definitely won't admit it to Octavia, he's happy he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i rushing? is this trash? lemme know.
> 
> come hang on [tumblr!](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


	4. the functionalist perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She watches the words hit him, harder than any punch she could ever throw. The spell of the moments before, the alternate universe in which he was teaching her, joking with her even, completely disappeared.
> 
> “Let’s get one thing straight,” he grits out, “I don’t need anyone, especially not you. So watch your pedestal, Princess. The higher you are, the harder you fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special shout out to the wonderful [Meg](https://atlasbellamy.tumblr.com) \+ [P](https://youleftme-clarke.tumblr.com) for helping edit and just being the best. i can't imagine screaming about angst with anyone else <3

It is said that we do not make the guilty party suffer for the sake of suffering; it is nonetheless true that we find it right that he should suffer. – Emile Durkheim

* * *

  _Something taps against her window, just a quick sound that she might have missed had she not been standing near it waiting for the signal. She peeks through the blinds, grinning when she sees her friend standing in the side yard, tossing a pebble in the air then catching it with a matching smile. She holds up a finger for him to give her a  moment before grabbing her bag from the desk chair along with her favorite flannel to throw over her tank top. It is unusually brisk for late August but she finds she doesn’t mind. Fall is her favorite season and she welcomes its early arrival._

_She pushes the window open as soft as she can and steps out onto the roof. She’s done this a time or two, moving on the balls of her feet as light and graceful as a cat, before climbing down the lattice against the side of the house. The grass makes a soft thunk as she lands, and she turns to her friend._

_“Wells Jaha, out past nine on a school night,” she teases, pushing his shoulder playfully._

_“Not like you gave me much a choice,” he counters, and jerks his head for her to follow. He parked two houses down and she assumes it’s because he’s always been a bit paranoid – he typically isn’t the type to sneak out at night, and he is exactly the type to take every precaution around not getting caught._

_She slides into the passenger seat of his new Prius – “It’s earth friendly, Clarke!” he had huffed when she laughed at his choice in car. She has to admit, it’s cozy and his gas mileage is far superior to what she gets on her Jeep. She turns on the radio, flipping it to her favorite obscure station and rolls down the window._

_“Where is this place again?” he asks, opening the maps application in his phone. She checks her texts, finding the one from Monroe with the information he needs. He types it in and it tells him they’re thirty minutes away._

_They take off and she gets one last glance at her house, dark and quiet despite it being early in the night. Her dad is passed out already, having been working nearly sixty hours a week on a new project and hardly managing to function past dinner. Her mom is on shift at the hospital, probably opening someone up on the operating table at that very moment. She briefly wonders what would happen if her dad woke and found her missing from her room, especially considering she’s supposed to be grounded._

_In her defense, she’s grounded quite a bit so it’s not like he could punish her much further._

_“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Wells says, hands gripping the wheel tightly, "I know for a fact Lexa would have been more than happy to be your escort to the party."_

_"First of all, 'escort"? Jaha, seriously?" she laughs, "And secondly, she and I are currently on a break right now."_

_"Again?"_

_"Yes, again."_

_"I don't think it's healthy the amount of times you all break up per month."_

_"Yeah, well, maybe we just really like making up." she replies with a wink._

_Their friendship is unique, a night and day comparison best describing how they complement one another. She thinks it’s partly because he’s been in her life since she can remember, a bond formed so strongly that even though they are so drastically different they couldn’t be rid of one another if they tried. He’s the moral compass, a voice of reason and certified good guy. Volunteers for Habitat on the weekends, recently voted Junior class president, and just the kind of kid who could probably save the world if given long enough._

_“It’s not my fault you still let the pouting work on you,” she laughs._

_It’s not as though she isn’t morally sound or different in a worse way. She’s smart, shares the same honors classes he does, but she tends to be a bit more rebellious. She isn’t afraid to do what’s unexpected of her, not afraid to break the mold, something many people in their shared private school wouldn’t do. Her dad once called her a rebel, but in the most endearing way and it’s always stuck to her. She doesn’t want to just grow up and become a person created by high class education and expectations. She wants more for herself and sometimes that manifests in sneaking out at night or skipping class to go to the art studio three blocks from school._

_“You’ll be the death of me, Griffin,” he sighs and she turns up the radio._

This is life in slow motion, picturesque moments that remain ingrained in memory forever. Something so small and seemingly insignificant. The way he smiles and laughs with her, singing to the song he claims to hate.

_“Turn left in six hundred feet,” the GPS chirps._

_He pulls up to the light, drumming his fingers on the wheel. The chorus begins to play and they continue to sing._

So wake me up when it’s all over,

When I’m wiser and I’m older!

All this time I was finding myself and I

Didn’t know I was lost.

_It repeats and they grow louder, just as the light turns green. He pulls into the intersection, voice reaching high octaves and she’s giggling and it’s one of those moments. Until—_

_“Wells!” she shouts as headlights flood through the driver’s side window. There is a sickening crash, crushing fiberglass and metal. Gasoline pours into the air and fills her nose._

“Clarke!”

She wakes with a jolt, eyes burning at the sudden invasion of bright lights and personal space. Her roommate is standing over her, a concerned arm gripping her shoulder. It takes a moment for her mind to catch up, to understand that it’s not back of a wrecked car but safe in her bed. She tries to suck in a long breath, but it’s ragged and doesn’t seem to find her lungs.

_You’ll be the death of me, Griffin._

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until a sob rumbles in her chest. She covers her mouth with her hand, as if trying to bottle the sound so it is reserved for only her. She feels a toned arm snake around her shoulder and it’s the opposite of warm. It’s awkward and strange, but she leans into anyway.

It’s been months since she last had a nightmare like that, since the memory danced in her sleep and taunted her. Four years have passed since she lived that night and she spent ample time afterwards reliving it over and over. It never gets any less vivid, never feels any less real. The smell of gasoline is residual in her nose and she feels sick. She continues trying to breathe, breath coming heavily against Octavia’s neck as the girl tries to soothe her. She’s not good at it, and Clarke’s almost positive she’s probably wishing she had stayed out of their room for the night. But she’s been spending nearly every night with her now, her presence becoming a constant rather than an anomaly.

“Just breathe, Clarke,” Octavia says and she wants to laugh at the rough tone of her voice. It’s almost welcome, to be comforted by someone who is rough around the edges, sharp when she speaks.

She calms quicker than she expects, leaning off the bony shoulder she had been resting on and wiping at the sweat beading on her forehead. She inhales, finally feeling some semblance of normalcy return to her body and then just as quickly, panics when she realizes that the poor girl just had to wake up in the middle of the night to soothe her like a child.

“Sorry,” she clears her throat, embarrassment flushing her cheeks, “I, uh…”

She isn’t sure what to say.

_Sorry, I just relived the night my best friend was killed. Next time, I’ll try to be a little quieter._

“Do you want to talk about it?” Octavia asks, folding a leg where she sits on the edge of her bed, “I mean, you can if you want. If it’ll help.”

She opens her mouth to decline, to tell her she’s fine and effectively dismiss her back to bed. But the scar on her hip feels heavy, much like the guilt she’s carried for years. So that’s what fills the space between them, regret and sadness and guilt.

“He was my best friend,” she finishes, wiping at the tear rolling free down her cheek. Just a month ago, talking to Octavia about this would have been a laughable idea, something she couldn’t see happening anywhere except an alternate universe. Now, it feels easier to talk to her. Like a weird version of Stockholm syndrome-- when you begin spending more time with someone, you get more comfortable. It's intimate and yet somehow distant.

“I’m sorry,” Octavia whispers finally, and typically it’s the last thing Clarke likes to hear. It’s what people say when they don’t have any other response. But something passes between them. An understanding, maybe. She gets the feeling that maybe they share in something painful, that she’s saying sorry because she knows.

“Losing people is hard,” she continues, “Especially when you feel like it’s your fault.”

She nods silently, hearing something unspoken in those words. Part of her wants to ask, to know if she’s right in her suspicion. But it feels too invasive, all things considered. Too heavy, even. 

Octavia seems to be considering this, too, as she stares at the desk on her side of the room, fiddling with her cotton pajama shorts. She must think better because she turns back to Clarke and reaches out to touch her covered knee, “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

How many times had she been told that? How bad has she wanted to believe it? Had she not asked him to go out that night, he would have still been there. Had she been paying more attention to the road, had she driven herself. What if? _What if?_

“Stop it,” Octavia cuts in, as if reading her mind. She grips her knee a little tighter, “Believe me when I tell you, what if’s will drive you crazy. You can’t do that.”

_If only you knew._

“I try not to,” she says honestly, “But sometimes you can’t help it, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.”

They sit in silence, and part of her wishes Octavia would open up. Maybe because it would make her feel a bit better about falling into crisis early in the morning. But also because she can’t help but wonder. In the weeks since the first fight, since meeting her brother and subsequently being treated like the bubonic plague due to her status, she’s grown curious. Something is different about them. Not necessarily bad, but not what she grew up around.

Arkadia is full of people who wear masks of perfection and poise, who refuse to let the world know when something isn’t quite right. They’re material things, large parties, and status updates whereas the Blake’s, they’re gritty and raw. They’re real.

“Tell you what,” Octavia stands, picking her phone from her bed and checking it, “I know what might help.”

She starts rummaging through her drawers for clothes, “The gym opens at six. I was planning on heading over this morning, anyway, if you want to come.”

She has to laugh at that, “No offense, but working out will definitely not make me feel better.”

“Not that kind of gym.” Without reserve, she yanks off her shorts, replacing them with leggings but leaves the baggy t-shirt she had worn to sleep. She brushes out her hair, pulling it back up into a tight ponytail that swings between her shoulder blades.

She’s that kind of girl, Clarke decides, who can put minimal effort into her looks and still manage to be breathtakingly gorgeous.

 _The Blake’s have good genes,_ she muses.

Deciding that going back to sleep would be a tedious and ultimately unsuccessful affair, she swings her legs off the bed and stands, letting out a long stretch before changing quickly. She finds a similar pair of yoga pants and slides them on. She grabs a bra from where it hangs on her closet door and pauses. Octavia rolls her eyes but grabs her toothbrush and leaves the room. She’s not one for modesty, it appears. Clarke snaps the bra into place and throws on a tank top, before pulling her favorite sweatshirt over it.

Her hair is a wild tangle of curls and she combs through gently, whimpering as it gets stuck in a particularly nasty knot. Deciding that the struggle isn’t worth it, she gathers her hair into a bun and ties it to the top of her head, loose tendrils framing her face softly.

By the time they’re ready, her phone reads only six thirty a.m. She’s never been much for mornings, choosing afternoon classes whenever possible for the sole purpose of sleeping in. Yet she feels oddly awake this Saturday morning, and walking outside just as the sun finishes its peak over the horizon is pretty nice.

“The 72 will get us there in about a half hour,” Octavia says walking them towards the bus stop.

She stops, pulling her keys from her purse, “Or I could drive?”

“Or that.”

Using highways proves to be much faster and they pull up to a small warehouse somewhere on 54th street. She tries not to think about the way she heard people talk about this end of town growing up. She learned long ago to form her own opinions, especially considering most of theirs were biased and coming from a place of privilege. She parks on the street and clicks the lock button once they slide out.

They pass a garage door, painted in graphitized letters and colorful lines. The door next to it is covered in stickers, a myriad of witty bumper stickers and political ideas. Octavia pulls it open and gestures for her to go in.

It’s busy, considering how early it is, Clarke nearly running into someone almost immediately. She apologizes and watches him run off, joining the group of teenagers jogging around the outer walls of the place. It’s significantly bigger than it appears on the outside, open flooring with two now familiar rings sitting in the middle. Equipment litters the walls and bags hang from beams in the ceilings. On the far wall, words are painted in bold letters: _ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim._

“Get knocked down, get back up,” Octavia translates from behind her, “Indra’s favorite saying in her first language.”

She spots a woman standing in the middle of one of the mats, arms crossed and stern looking. She is older, perhaps mid-40s but looks like she could kick anyone and everyone’s ass without breaking a sweat. She assumes that to be Indra.

“Come on,” Octavia nudges her shoulder, “I’ll introduce you.”

She tries to swallow the sudden anxiety that bubbles in her throat and follows behind her, gripping her purse in her hands just for something to hold on to. When Octavia approaches, she sees the woman’s lips twitch almost into a smile.

“I didn’t know you were coming by,” she greets, eyes flitting immediately to where Clarke stands. They’re fierce, just as she is, but curious.

“This is Clarke,” Octavia introduces and recognition replaces her curiosity. This time her lip does quirk into a half smile. Relief washes over her.

“The nurse,” she nods, offering her hand.

"Nursing student," she replies automatically before clearing her throat awkwardly and taking it, "I mean, that's me."

“I appreciate what you’ve done for these two,” she says, shooting Octavia a meaningful look, “Their complete disregard for their personal well-being is infuriating.”

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Octavia grumbles, crossing her arms stubbornly, “I’m not that prideful.”

Indra scoffs at that, “Do you want me to start?”

Clarke watches the easy banter between the two, the way Indra watches her with a particular fondness similar to that of a close family member. Even a parent. And she’s heard Octavia talk about her in passing, with frustration yet high regard. It’s an interesting dynamic.

“At least I’m not working out when I’m supposed to be resting!” she practically shouts it across the warehouse and Clarke’s eyes find him instantly. He’s standing in one of the back corners, sweat glistening on his bare chest as his fists fall from the small bag above his head. A speedbag, she thinks it's called, remembering one of the movies her dad made her watch when she was younger.

She tries not to focus on his toned stomach or the bulge of his biceps, practically forcing her eyes to remain on his face when he approaches. Indra excuses herself quietly before shouting at the exhausted group of trainees. His eye looks slightly better, a couple days having passed since the exam. It’s still not exactly pleasant to look at, black and purple stretching from his eyebrow to halfway down his cheek.

 _Focus on the eye,_ she repeats silently to herself. _Don’t get distracted._ She realizes then exactly what that thought insinuates, that she could even remotely be attracted to Bellamy Blake. 

 _He's an ass. A huge ass. Completely negates his good looks._ Shit.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s talking to his sister, but staring at her. While they may have found an uneasy truce at the hospital, she still isn’t sure how to act around him. He clearly has issues with her, albeit shallow ones.

“We woke up early,” Octavia explains, “Thought we’d stop by, maybe hit some shit.”

That draws a laugh from him and he turns completely to Clarke, “And you?”

“To hit shit?” she offers. It’s not why she came. Hell, she hadn’t even known where she was going when the younger Blake invited her out. But hitting stuff actually sounds pretty nice.

“Then by all means,” he gestures to the wall behind him. She follows the siblings over and Octavia picks up a pair of gloves.

“I have some in the back,” she explains, turning to her brother, “Help her get these on, yeah?”

She doesn’t wait for a response, just pushes them into Bellamy’s hands and stalks off. They stand there awkwardly staring at one another, and she wills her eyes not to look down.

 _He’s an asshole,_ she reminds herself again, _a hot one, yes, but still one._

“Not going to ruin your manicure, am I, Princess?” There it is. He unties the glove, pulling at the strings with deft fingers.

She glares at him before hanging on her purse on the now vacant hook and removing her sweatshirt. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick down her body and hesitate on her chest. She smirks.

So it seems they’re both at the same place.

She offers her hand and he pushes the glove on it with a yank. She stiffens her elbow after it nearly jabs into her ribs from the force. He turns over her wrist and tightens it. She does the same with the other one and they work in silence, both testing the waters of the tentative acquaintanceship.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks once her hand drops. The gloves are strange against her skin, heavy and awkward. She lifts them trying to get used to their weight.

“What do you think?”

He actually chuckles at that and walks her to the bag, having her stop in front of it.

“The important thing is to remember that the power comes from your entire body, not just your fist or your arm,” he teaches and she watches as he takes his stance. She tries to move her feet to mimic him, feeling clumsy.

“Good,” he encourages once she figures it out. “Now, arms like this.”

He seems like he’s done this a bit, she realizes as he walks her through the motions. He’s surprisingly patient with her, all signs of the biting, judgmental prick buried underneath this concentrated teacher.

“Throw a punch,” he instructs and she sucks in a deep breath before throwing her fist at the bag. It’s embarrassingly pathetic. When she sees him out of the corner of her eye, she can see him biting his lip trying not to laugh.

She throws another one, equally, if not more so, sad and this time she’s the one that laughs. It seems to be permission for him because then he’s laughing with her. She drops her gloves in defeat.

“Hey, no,” he composes himself quickly, grabbing her shoulders with his hands, now bare of gloves. The white cotton wrapped around his knuckles and the palms of his hand are soft against her skin and she tries to ignore the strange feeling that zips in her veins. He positions her back in front of the bag firmly.

“Never too late to learn how to throw a proper punch,” he says, which is incredibly positive coming from the guy who had been pretty adamant that she was just another rich prep. Not entirely a false assessment, but still.

“Put the weight on your dominant leg.” He pats his right thigh, but she puts out her left leg and tries to mirror him.

“When you go to throw the punch, you want to put some power in that leg.” He moves slowly so she can watch him push into the punch. His fist goes gracefully through the air, the muscles in his arm flexing at the movement.

 _Fucking focus,_ she scolds herself.

She stares ahead and does the same, pushing against her left leg as she punches, her body turning into it automatically.

“Good girl,” he praises and she tries to ignore the flash of heat suddenly in her stomach.

_What the fuck is happening?_

Thankfully, Octavia finally decides to reappear, gloved up and looking rearing to go, “Hey, sorry, Indra needed me for a second.”

Clarke feels a small blush creeping up her neck and tries to play it off with an easy smile. Luckily, Bellamy fills the silence.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” he tells his sister. Reflexively, Clarke sticks her tongue out at him, an awfully friendly gesture, all things considered.

“Nice to see you being nice, big brother,” she comments and he clears his throat uncomfortably as if being nice is an insult.

“Figured I'd keep it civil until she gets bored and crawls back to whatever castle she came from."

_So much for that._

“And there it goes,” Octavia groans, sending Clarke an apologetic look.

“It’s fine,” she tells her, before pointedly looking back at him, fire in her eyes, “I’d be nice, too, if I were in his shoes.”

“And why’s that?” He steps closer to her, something electric fizzling in the space between them. A perfect storm.

“Because considering you refuse to listen to anyone when it comes to your health, you’ll need me sooner rather than later.”

She watches the words hit him, harder than any punch she could ever throw. The spell of the moments before, the alternate universe in which he was teaching her, joking with her even, completely disappeared.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he grits out, “I don’t need anyone, especially not you. So watch your pedestal, Princess. The higher you are, the harder you fall.”

"For the last time, you don't know me, Blake so quite trying to act like it!" 

"Oh, I think I do. You're the poor little rich girl who came to college to try and find herself, right? Maybe experiment a little, do whatever the hell you want because at the end of the day you can run back to your parents and your perfect little life."

"Bellamy!" Octavia practically growls from behind her.

She doesn't expect the sting or her response to catch in her throat. All she can do is open her mouth but nothing comes out. She has to clench her hands into fists, press her fingernails into her palms just to keep from wiping the smirk of his face. He looks victorious, smirking when she can't respond and she decides right then that she hates him. 

"Is there a problem here?" 

She doesn't realize how close they were standing until Indra pushes between them, glaring at Bellamy as Clarke moves back. She blinks back tears threatening to spill over, only growing more frustrated that they're there in the first place. She hates being a angry crier, damn it. 

"Take a walk, Bellamy." Indra demands. He turns without another word and pushes open the door to the locker room, leaving her staring at his back.

"You okay?" Octavia asks, laying a gentle hand on her arm. 

She just nods, not trusting herself to speak at the moment. Her mind is jumbled, trying to figure out how the hell one insignificant relationship can send her through such a whirlwind of emotions in less than five minutes. 

The rest of the morning is spent with Octavia going over some basic punches and by the end of it, Clarke can hardly lift her arms. Part of her does feel better, the nightmare almost completely forgotten. But something crawls underneath her skin as she thinks about Bellamy's words, even as the day progresses on.  _The higher you are, the harder you fall._

She laughs to herself because what he doesn't know about her is that she's already fallen. 

* * *

 

“Why are you _such_ a dick?!”

Bellamy pulls the phone away from his ear, regretting his decision to pick up almost instantly. Unfortunately, his mind only works one way and any time Octavia’s name pops up on his screen, he thinks the worst. She prefers texting to calling, so it’s not his fault he assumes emergency scenario when she phones.

She’s not wrong, really. He can’t explain what happened at the gym any more than she wants him to. He was fine – after the hospital he had resolved to at least be civil to Clarke, because for fuck’s sake, she got him free treatment at a hospital. The normal bill for a waiting room visit is outrageous alone and she made sure everything was fucking free. It’s not like he trusts her suddenly, but he can at least be somewhat nicer while remaining cautious. Thought, in all honesty, his real plan was just to avoid her as much as possible. 

Then she came to the gym. He had been surprised to see her but not angry. Not at first. She seems to be becoming an actual fixture in Octavia's life, which isn't the worst thing. She needs friends, especially ones from University. He wants her to be normal and if she surrounds herself with people who encourage her to be a better version of herself, maybe she can achieve that. But Clarke throws him off and his emotions are so all over the place around her. They were getting along fine and it's like something came over him where he had to make it difficult.

The truth that's he's pushed away is this: he found himself growing comfortable with her in the span of minutes and it freaked him out so he got defensive. It's like an automatic response anytime he feels himself starting to let his guard down. 

“O—” he starts but she cuts him off with another quick snap.

“Whatever you think of her, fine,” the anger is coming off her in waves, and he assumes she's alone wherever she is having hard time imagining Clarke is present for this, “But Jesus Christ, Bell, you make it hard to have normal friends.”

He falls back into his bed, muscles tense from hours of training, “I’m sorry.”

It’s not much in way of apology, but really, he has no excuse. He knows she struggles with making friends, always has. Clarke is the first person she's ever brought to the gym and he knows that means something.

Fuck, he’s an asshole.

“I know you think she’s some high class snob, but she’s not like that. She’s pretty okay.”

'Pretty okay' is gold standard for O.

“Fine,” he concedes, rubbing a hand along his face. He hates admitting when he’s wrong, and though he’s not entirely convinced that he is when it comes to Clarke, he vows to try a little harder. For Octavia’s sake.

“Thank you,” she says cheerfully, “By the way, what time are we going to Dropship tonight?”

“What?”

He storms out to the living room, where Murphy is laid out on the couch eating a bag of Ruffles. The television is at that annoying level of high volume when something explodes, it rattles the floor. He stomps in front of his and crosses his arms.

Murphy groans, “What, mom?”

“You invited my _underage_ sister to the bar tonight?”

He sits up, folding over the now empty chip bag and tossing it on the table. He has to fight the urge to toss the nearest object at him when crumbs sprinkle into the carpet.

“It’s not like she can’t get in,” he offers in way of explanation. This time Bellamy doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a DVD from the shelf and chucks it at him.

“God, you are such a baby.” Murphy dodges it, holding his hands up in surrender when Bellamy prepares to pounce. “It’s Dropship, not the fucking nightclub. She was standing there when I mentioned it to Lincoln this morning. I felt bad not inviting her.”

He doesn’t respond, just stomps into the kitchen and grabs a glass of water. While it’s not exactly new territory for Octavia to meet them at a bar, it’s usually under the guise of doing trivia or playing a round of darts. This just feels a little too friendly for his taste and he feels just slightly uncomfortable trying to pick up a girl when his sister is right there.

The rest of the day is fairly uneventful and by the time he wakes up from his nap, it’s nearing eight and Miller is knocking on his bedroom door asking him if he’s ready.

“Yeah,” he calls, trying to sound more awake than he is, “Just a minute.”

He pulls on a pair of fitted jeans and blue t-shirt and tries to get the stubborn piece of hair in the back to stop sticking up. He shoves his tattered wallet into his pocket and grabs his phone, the clock reading only five minutes later.

“You were asleep, weren’t you?” Miller asks as he stands from the couch. Bellamy only flips him off.

Dropship is a small bar closer to the city, but lacking the same flare most of the ones in Arkadia have. It’s a pub, by all means, with cheap pints and good, greasy food. Saturdays are typically a little more packed, karaoke starting at ten and usually drawing in the drunken crowds from the street. Recently, it’s become a place for college kids to hang out, something that makes him a little more uneasy since it’s not really his crowd.

Some days, he wishes it were. When he was younger, he used to dream of becoming a teacher. His mom used to read him old Greek myths and tell him stories of ancient empires. They always fascinated him and he thought, at one point, he might like to study it. Really study it. But life happened and it wasn’t in the cards. Sometimes that’s a hard pill to swallow, but it is what it is at the end of the day.

The crowd is fairly thin when they walk in, and Octavia’s already sitting in their usual booth, sipping her soda and nodding enthusiastically when Harper says something into her ear. Harper is probably the closest thing Octavia’s had to a girlfriend before Clarke—another person that hangs at Indra’s gym and kicks ass in tournaments. She’s around a little less now, having decided to go to school in New York a few hours away, but tries to make a point to see everyone when she does make it in on the weekends.

“What’s up!” Harper greets, giving a round of hugs to her friends. They settle in and Murphy orders the first round, Bellamy assumes as an apology for inviting his baby sister out without consulting with him first. Octavia orders fried pickles to share and tells them about her classes. They enjoy hearing about it, if only to hear about some of the ridiculous things that happen in school.

As soon as the karaoke booth opens, Miller zips from the table to sign up, eliciting a laugh from his friends. Miller is one of the most serious people he knows, hardly cracking a smile unless at the expense of someone else. But he loves karaoke. Loves it. It’s the prime reason they come here so frequently. It’s only bearable because he does have a nice voice.

“You good, O?” he asks, his sister having gone unusually quiet. She’s staring at her phone in concentration before getting up abruptly, pressing the phone to her ear.

She isn’t gone long, hardly giving him time to worry before she’s back and sliding into the booth, fingers rapidly going over the keyboard.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“It was just Clarke,” she tells him, “She’s going to come up here.”

He takes a sip of his beer. “Attached at the hip now?”

She narrows her eyes at him and he raises a hand in apology. Right. He said he would be nicer.

“I’ll behave,” he offers.

“You know, she woke me up screaming this morning,” her nails scrape idly at the chipping table as she tells him, “Yelling someone’s name and I thought maybe someone had gotten into our room or something. But she was asleep."

He watches his sister talk, concern etched on her normally hardened features as she talks about it. “I know nightmares like that, Bell. She’s been through some shit.”

He doesn’t speak, just lets what goes unspoken sit between them. She’s trying to tell him that there’s something more with her. Perhaps if O hadn’t been privy to this experience, they’d have a very different conversation. But something has clearly changed as result of the nightmare, a weird respect Octavia’s developed for her roommate. Trauma understands trauma.

“I’ll be nice,” he says again, this time genuine because he doesn’t want to fuck this up for her and he trusts her judgment even if he doesn't trust Clarke.

Miller makes it through one more song before Clarke joins them and she looks frazzled as she sits in the booth, eyes a bit flighty and hair sticking out wildly. He slides his untouched water over her in a peace offering and she raises an eyebrow in question, as though asking if that’s what it is. He nods and she takes a long drink.

“So Clarke,” Octavia finally says, turning to the others at the table, “That’s Miller.”

Miller offers a wave, familiar with her from her brief stint at his matches. She gives him an awkward wave back.

“And Murphy.”

“Are all your friends this hot, O?” he says by way of introduction and he smiles into his beer when Octavia promptly elbows him in the ribs.

“Thanks,” is all Clarke says. Her eyes find his again, wary, as though expecting him to make some snide comment. He promptly averts his eyes.

“Ignore him,” Harper says, “I’m Harper, the only sane one in this bunch.”

It doesn’t take her long to relax, even bursting into laughter at one of Murphy’s morbid jokes. He beams when she does, typically only given loud groans of disapproval when he tells one. She and Miller seem to bond over some video game he’s never heard of, a genuine surprise to everyone at the table.

“You know you’re supposed to use your Focus to catch the weak points, right?” she’s telling him.

He appears as if he’s just been told one of the greatest world secrets, eyes bright with excitement.. “Are you fucking serious?”

He finishes off his drink and slides out, taking his empty glass with him. He makes his way to the bar and sits on one of the rickety stools, the wood creaking painfully. The bartender saunters over and grabs his glass.

“You better slow down or I might cut you off,” Gina tells him, popping the tap and flooding the glass with the amber liquid. She places it back on the counter and he lays down his cash with a soft smile.

“You know it takes at least eight or nine of these before you should worry,” he tells her.

She hands him his change with a roll of her eyes, “You’re a lightweight, Blake. You and I both know it.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Her eyes flit over his shoulder. “Can I help you?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Clarke’s voice breezes next to him. She sits her purse on the bar and takes a seat next to him, rummaging through her wallet for cash.

“I’m gonna need to see some I.D.,” Gina responds and he’s surprised when she pulls one out and hands it over. "Oh, sorry. I figured you were here with Baby Blake and assumed..."

“No worries,” Clarke smiles. She gets the beer and hands over the ten, telling Gina to keep the change. When she walks away he turns to her.

“You 21?” he asks. He has a hard time believing it, especially that University would put someone like her in the dorms with an 18 year old. That seems like a recipe for disaster.

She hesitates before reaching into her pocket to show him the ID, "20. Really good fake."

It’s nearly perfect, he notices. He definitely couldn’t tell the difference had she not told him it was fake. Part of him wonders what she would do if he told Gina, but then he thinks about his promise to be nicer. And frankly, he’s a little more interested in the fact that she’s 20.

As if reading his mind, she takes a short drink and explains, “Early birthday and deferred school for a year.”

“Ah,” he responds, though he wants to ask more questions. He thinks of what Octavia said, about the nightmare and the feeling that she’s been through a lot. But he imagines after the way he was earlier, she wouldn’t just offer the information.

“I’m sorry,” is what he goes with, ignoring the small ache to his pride. “About earlier, I mean.”

She’s quiet, her guard firmly in place and he doesn’t blame her. She took the chance and let it down at the gym and he punched her right in the gut.

“I’m not really good at this sort of thing,” he admits, messing with the stray coaster on the bar top.

“Apologizing or talking to people?”

“Both.”

He looks up and she has the hint of a smile, hiding it in her glass. “I can tell.”

He eyes her, but without malice. She seems to relax a bit when he doesn’t bite her head off at the quip.

“For what’s it worth,” he says, “I’m happy to see O making friends. Between you and me, she’s not great at it.”

This time, a laugh is drawn from her lips. “Must be a Blake trait.”

Well, she’s not wrong.

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll admit, she intimidated me at first. Hell, the first time she even spoke more than two words to me was the night of your fight,” she offers. It’s nothing new. And he knows that the only reason that probably happened was because he had been left without a medic and she worried he was going to get his ass kicked.

However, he’s not the one that voices it. She is.

“I know at first she just wanted me around to help you out,” there is no disdain or bitterness in her voice, just casual acceptance. “But I think we’re cool now.”

He thinks of his conversation with his sister earlier. “She thinks you’re pretty okay, which is a high honor with her.”

She smiles and something flickers in the back of his mind – he likes the way she smiles. It lights up her entire face.

“Good to know,” she responds.

“Clarke!” Octavia is waving her over to the table, excited about something. He sees Lincoln standing behind her and wonders faintly when he arrived.

She turns to go before pausing to look at back at him. “So is this like a truce or something?”

He doesn't know what it is, exactly. He wants his sister to be happy and if that means being nicer to her roommate, so be it. But he still worries that she's going to get hurt, that Clarke is going to be a fleeting part of her life and it's only going to reaffirm what Octavia's known her entire life: people always leave. he's always the one to pick up the pieces and he has to prepare for this time to be no different. He can't tell her that, so instead he gives her just the slightest of smiles.

"Yeah, or something."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sending big love to everyone who has commented and complimented this fic. research shows it inspires writers to write quicker. 
> 
> on the real though, you all are awesome and i am floored by your love and sending it back to you! 
> 
> come hang on [tumblr!](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


	5. the body keeps the score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were checking me out,” he comments loosely and she snaps out of it. She doesn’t respond, just holds the towel out to him.
> 
> “You have blood on your chest, idiot,” she snarks. He takes the towel but if the way he’s smirking at her is any indication, he doesn’t believe that as an excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one went completely unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and shall be fixed as soon as I can. sending love to everyone who has been so kind, your compliments are what feed me!

_"The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.” - Bessel A. van der Kolk_

* * *

 

 

There is something eerily familiar about today -- solid gray skies, not a single break in the clouds as rain pours and softly patters against the window. She watches as droplets slide down the glass panel, disappearing into the crevices of the window pane. She wonders if it’s a sign for things to come, an omen of sorts. There is a catalog of memories flipping through her mind one by one to the sound of each tap.

Drip. _She’s telling Wells about the stupid party._

Drop _. Her Dad drops her off at school._

Drip _. Sirens. Flashing lights._

Drop. _We’re looking for a Clarke Griffin._

“Clarke?”

She blinks rapidly, turning her attention from the window to the therapist, ankles crossed as she sits ramrod straight in her expensive leather chair. The woman shares a look with her mother, who sits on the opposite end of the couch from her with her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke apologizes, “What was the question?”

Dr. Tsing clears her throat, glancing back down at her notepad, “How do you feel about your mom leaving this week?”

She swallows thickly, thinking over her words carefully. Her first instinct is to be happy – she knows her mom is more than to be leaving the facility. She’s hit her ninety days, completed all her programming, and is finally able to return to the real world. A world filled with colorful walls, soft beds, and non-clinical human interaction. But Clarke would be lying if she said she isn’t worried. They’ve done this before, sat together while Abby promised that she’d do better. Three months later she was back to it, hiding pill bottles underneath her pillow because she knew Clarke would look everywhere else.

She turns to her mom, tongue feeling heavy with all the words she wants to say, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Of course,” Abby says instantly.

Clarke knows she believes that, but isn’t sure that she understands what she’s asking. “Can you really handle being on your own?”

She doesn’t need to specify. Clarke had hardly had everything unpacked in her dorm before she got the call that her mother had been arrested for false prescriptions. Again. Clarke had never really forgiven her for the first time, but hoped, naively, that she had learned her lesson. The lingering trauma was only further created when she had to leave class to go bail her own mother out of jail, a large sense of resentment that crawls uncomfortably along her skin. She had wondered what would happen from there, as Abby cried in her car on their way home, a mess of apologies and fear for her future. She’s a surgeon, for fucks sake, and she just violated a dozen laws both legally and morally in her field of work. And she's done it twice. 

Part of Clarke hoped that the second time would bring about the consequences the first never did. Abby Griffin is damn good at her job and Arkadia is a small community, so sweeping it under the rug was the logical response. Then she does it again and the police chief still hides the evidence, sending her off with a slap on the wrist because they want Dr. Griffin to still be in practice It’s almost laughable how, just because of a certain skill, she can get away with something people of lesser status would sit in jail for. For years. Her mother’s solution for penance, a way to make reparations for her mistakes was to complete treatment. Again.

Circles. They're going in circles. 

“It’s 90 days,” her mom had said when she first told her daughter about it, “I think the extra time will help.”

Twice before she’s gone to short term treatment. Twice before she swore she would never do it again, never put her daughter through the pain of finding her unresponsive on their kitchen floor, of bailing her out of jail. This time is different. This time she’ll do better. Clarke had heard it all before.

Forgiveness is still hard.

“I can do it,” her mom says again, reaching over to touch her knee. Clarke has to count to five not to shrink away.

She wants to ask why this is different from the others. What has changed? Is it because she’s on the brink of losing her daughter? On the brink of losing everything she's worked for?

“Okay.” she says instead.

“Is there anything else you want her to know?” Dr. Tsing presses, sensing Clarke’s discomfort.

She has to fight the glare that threatens to burn a hole right through the therapist’s expensive blouse. A million things come to mind, sometimes they swirl around so agresively that her head spins. More than once she’s wanted to lay it all out there, get it off her chest so she can finally be free of this burden she keeps bearing. She wants more than anything to be able to just fucking talk about it. But now is not the time. She doesn’t trust herself to tread delicately and she doesn’t think her mom is in any place to hear them. So  she shakes her head and Dr. Tsing goes over some exit paperwork before releasing them both.

“Did you want to grab lunch?” her mom asks as they walk to Clarke’s car. She shouldn’t feel this way about her mom, shouldn’t hold on to the feeling of disappointment and resentment. Shouldn’t expect the worst. It’s not healthy, not for either of them.

She thinks about lying, making up an excuse about class or homework but then she remembers everything the support group had said. _Don’t isolate them. Don’t make them feel like they have no one because it’s during those intense bouts of loneliness that relapsing is more common._

“Sure,” she says with a tight smile, “You pick.”

The lunch isn’t terrible. Clarke manages to ease into conversation, telling her mom about university, classes, and working in the clinic. She even takes the chance to tell her mom about her newfound understanding with Octavia, the roommate she had only spoken about in passing once before. Hell, she ventures out and calls her a friend. They’re closer to that than strangers, at the very least. By the time Clarke drops her off at home, with the encouragement that her mom call if she needs anything and a few tears followed by a lengthy hug, she’s exhausted.

“Hey,” Octavia greets from her bed when Clarke returns. She’s got her leg propped up, painting her toenails with the usual black polish, “How was your mom?”

She tosses her bag on the floor and flops down onto her bed, the springs creaking in protest as they bounce, “Pretty good.”

“Being a surgeon and shit?”

It’s a light joke but it makes Clarke tense all the same, “Yeah, something like that.”

She feels her eyes growing heavy as she sinks into the pillow, the mental toll of the day already making her want to sleep for the next five hours. It’s not healthy, the way she shuts down on days like these, she knows that. Her coping methods have never been great and admittedly, it’s something she could and should work on. But fuck, she’s so tired.

She’s nearly asleep when Octavia wakes her with a question, “You still coming tonight?”

Her eyes open fully. Right. The fight. Bellamy has something scheduled with some guy from Shallow Valley, a place she’s never heard of but apparently spits out some decent boxers. It’s nothing big, a way to get his feet back in the ring. It’s his first one since recovering from the eye injury, a surprise for Clarke considering it meant he actually took her advice.

It’s been almost a month since their unsteady truce was made over beer and poor music choices. So far, it’s gone fairly well. He no longer makes snide comments about her perceived wealth and most of his insults are masked with dry humor, something she kind of appreciates. He can be funny. Sometimes. Mostly, he avoids her. When they're at the gym, he'll greet them and then move on to do his own exercises without much else. The last three Saturdays have been spent there, mostly because Octavia is determined to teach her how to throw a decent punch. She doesn't mind it, actually enjoying the exercise training even if she isn't great at it.

 

There seems to be a routine forming and it’s something Clarke hadn’t expected but finds to be quite nice. She spends less time staring at the gray walls of her dorm room and studying terms she already knows just for kicks. And from what she’s gathered, they seem to like having her around. At the end of their training Saturday, Bellamy had been just about to leave when he found her sitting in the corner watching Octavia spar with Indra. She was enraptured by the two of them, almost missing the question.

“You doing anything Thursday?” he had asked, playing with the strap of his bag seemingly having some sort of inner battle with himself. She shook her head slowly, wondering if she might be setting herself up for something.

“I, uh, have a match,” he told her awkwardly, “It’s not a big one or anything. But it’s the first one since the eye’s healed so I thought you might want to know?”

She had to bite her lip to hide the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, “Cool, I’ll shoot some prayers your way.”

He huffs at that, “Prayers that someone knocks me on my ass, I’m sure.”

She shrugs, turning her attention back to the two women in the ring. He shifts uncomfortably, but she remains patient. She has a feeling she knows what he wants but at this point, she needs to hear him say it.

“You’re really going to make me ask, aren’t you?” he sounds like a child the way he says it, a low whine that should almost embarrass him.

She beams, “Ask what?”

“Forget it,” he growls, turning to stomp away. She hums, watching as his shoulder tense and her whirls back around with an overly dramatic sight, “Can you come? Just to make sure I don’t fuck it up. Or whatever.”

There’s an ‘I told you so’ forming on her lips but she swallows it. She knows that by asking this, he’s pushing down his own pride. If there’s anything she’s learned about him over the past few weeks, it’s that he doesn’t like asking for help. So instead, she just gives him a soft smile and nods.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she finally responds to Octavia. The excitement radiates from her as she stands, mumbling about finding something to wear and suddenly Clarke doesn’t feel as exhausted.

* * *

 She finds herself behind the ropes by the end of the second round, pressing a towel to Bellamy’s face as he grumbles something under his breath.

“I thought you were quicker than that,” she jokes, though if the way he glares at her is any indication, it’s a bit inappropriate. She lifts the towel to inspect the damage, noticing the small lump formed on the bridge of his nose and the new slight curve it takes to the left.

“It’s definitely broken,” she tells him. She holds out her gloved hand, courtesy of the cheap med-kit Miller keeps on standby, and Murphy hands her the wet cloth she had requested. She wipes at the blood staining his upper lip and surrounding his nostrils with a gentle touch.

“Fix it,” Bellamy growls. She rolls her eyes at the demand, but makes quick work of cleaning up the blood before placing her fingers on either side.

“I’m going to count to three—“

“Griffin, I swear to God if you don’t just –“

She flicks her wrist and feels the pop beneath her fingers, trying not to look smug as Bellamy let’s out a string of curse words.

“Three.”

"Fuck!" he complains with tears in his eyes. She wonders how wounded his pride is in that moment, but he doesn't seem concerned with her. He's too focused on the man across the ring. He takes a sip of water and wipes the sweat from his brow with the non-blood covered towel.  His opponent is looking particularly pleased with himself having drawn blood from Bellamy Blake, but as she watches a fire rage behind Bellamy's eyes she thinks the other guy might just be royally screwed. 

"Go get him, tiger," she pats his shoulder as the bell dings. 

She takes off the gloves and tosses them, but doesn’t return to her seat with Octavia. She stands on the outside of the ring with Murphy and Miller, watching the rest of the fight unfold. It’s a different experience, watching Bellamy like this. She can see the way he considers every move, how his eyes seem to catch what the other fighter is going to do before he does it. He’s graceful in the ring, dancing around it with a finesse only someone who has spent a lot of time doing this would have.

So why wouldn’t he try to do this as a career? She doesn’t know much about boxing except what she’s managed to pick up from her handful visits to Indra’s gym and talking to Octavia. She’s not sure how people end up doing it for a living, selling fights for millions on television and becoming household names. But in all the times she watched boxing with her father, never once has she seen someone move like Bellamy. It’s captivating.

She jumps when his fist connects to his opponents cheek, the guy’s head snapping back as blood sprays from his mouth. He hits the mat with a loud crash, body bouncing as the dead weight slams on the floor. The referee completes his count, grabbing Bellamy’s wrist in victory as the crowd goes wild. She finds herself clapping along with them and when his eyes lock on hers, he actually smiles.

She follows him and the others back to the locker room so she can do a final check for injury. She’s not even sure the opponent got another punch in after the nose injury, but she finds herself wanting to be sure. She drops the med kit on the bench and waves Bellamy over, “Sit. Let me take a look.”

“Concerned, Princess?” he sits as he’s told, beginning to unwind the cloth and tape from his knuckles as he tilts his head up to look at her.

She touches his nose, grazing over the inflamed skin and testing the pain. “About you? Never.”

There’s something intimate about being with him like this, brushing her hand along the sharp features, but she finds that it doesn’t feel unnatural. “How’s that?” she asks with a soft touch.

“Fine.”

“And this?” She presses a little harder and he winces. Her hand slides over to his eye and pulls no his cheek so she can see the eyeball. There is still a bit of unnatural redness, but it seems to have healed well since he took the time to recover.

“How’s it look, doc?” he asks, breath hot on her wrist.

She drops her hand, “Did you actually just ask me for my professional opinion?”

He scoffs, “Never. Just asking since you're staring. Take a picture, it'll last longer.”

Maybe a month ago the words would hold a certain malice that would cause her cheeks to grow hot, but for now that she just elicit a sarcastic roll of the eyes and a quip in return.

“Careful or I might break that nose of yours again,” she clicks her tongue at him, stepping back as he stands.  

“Please,” he taunts, “I’ve met babies that hit harder than you.”

“Wow, even babies want to punch you in the face, you are that insufferable.”

His laugh rumbles deep with his chest as he shakes his head at her, “Who knew you were a comedian, Griffin?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching down to grab a small butterfly bandage to place on the bridge of his nose. Her fingers are soft as she sticks it to his skin and his eyes flutter against her touch. She tries to ignore the way her heart stutters slightly in her chest. She clears  her throat, “If you feel any discomfort or difficulty breathing, let me know. You can text me or call me or whatever.”

“Any excuse to get my number,” he smirks and she falters for a second. It’s almost flirtatious, she thinks briefly, before shaking it off. He’s just being a cocky dick because he won his fight.

“You know what, I changed my mind. I hope you stop breathing.”

This is easy. The banter flows between them almost naturally, like they’ve been friends for years and not just random acquaintances brought together by his sibling. She finds that underneath his hard exterior, all his defense mechanisms, he’s actually a pretty cool guy to be around. He’s witty and sarcastic, but she can see how deeply he cares for his friends and his sister. He’s fucking soft, though she wouldn’t dare say that to his face. While she hadn’t been sure making peace with him would go well, figuring he’d never let go of whatever resentment he was holding on to, so far it seems to be going pretty perfectly.

She tries not to let her eyes roll down to his still bare chest, but fails and notices the blood patterns speckled across his skin. She grabs the towel he had been using from the bench and walks over to the sink, wetting it underneath the old faucet. The pipes squeak as she turns the water off. She returns and let’s her gaze fall to his chest once more.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were checking me out,” he comments loosely and she snaps out of it. She doesn’t respond, just holds the towel out to him.

“You have blood on your chest, idiot,” she snarks. He takes the towel but if the way he’s smirking at her is any indication, he doesn’t believe that as an excuse.

The door swings open, drawing both their attention and Octavia practically skips in, Lincoln following behind her at a distance. Clarke’s eyes flit over to Bellamy instantly, but he seems to be pretty preoccupied scrubbing the blood from his skin. She wonders idly how long Octavia is going to try and act like she and Lincoln aren’t a thing. More than that, how long will it take Bellamy to freak out and, when he does, how bad will it be?

“I’ll see you later,” she hears him tell Octavia quickly, sharing a fleeting look with her before shutting the door behind him.

“We should go out,” Octavia says, throwing her long ponytail over her shoulder. Bellamy shuffles over to his locker to gather his things, tossing the bag over his shoulder and heading towards the shower.

“You’re underage, O,” Bellamy growls.

“Not that kind of going out,” she shouts after him. He closes the door to the bathroom in response. She curses lightly under her breath before joining Clarke where she’s taken a seat on the long wooden bench.

“You did awesome tonight, by the way,” Octavia tells her, picking absently at her black polished nails, “Just jumped right in there.”

Clarke flushes, “Oh, uh, yeah. Well, broken noses are no fun so…”

“Do you like coming to these?” she asks softly and Clarke realizes that she probably thinks she only came out of some weird obligation. Like it was chore.

Honestly, at first, she hated it. This is not a scene she ever thought she would like to be a part of. Fights, heavy drinking, and large crowds. She’s cowered away from that over the years, especially after Wells’ death. She hardly drinks, just a beer every now and then, and large crowds give her anxiety. They’re loud and overwhelming. But here feels different. Jumping to Bellamy’s aid was almost a natural reaction -- someone she knew was hurt and she knew how to fix it, so she did. Simple as that.

Yet, she knows despite the tentative friendship she and Octavia have built, they’re still vastly different. Octavia is sharp and proud. Unafraid and outspoken. Hard to be around at  some points because she has so much energy. Clarke, on the other hand, is still trying to find her footing in life. She’s going through the motions of school, doing what she’s supposed to do to stay afloat, tucking her head and staying under the radar. It’s part of what drew her to Octavia’s initial invitation -- here was this mysterious girl who gives no fucks and maybe she could learn a thing or two.

“I do,” she finally answers with a soft smile. Her eyes find the door to the bathroom where the shower runs and steam seeps beneath the crack, “Never thought I’d fit in here, to be honest.”

That draws a low laugh from Octavia, “Me either. Expected you to put in a room transfer, actually.”

“Really?”

“You know I only brought you because Bell’s medic quit and I wanted to make sure he didn’t fuck himself up too bad?” there’s nothing spiteful in her voice, just honesty, like she wants to make sure the air is cleared once and for all.

“I know.”

“But you were really good and…” Octavia pauses to consider her words, leaning forward so her elbows rest on her exposed knees through the holes in her jeans, “I don’t know, you seemed like you needed this?”

Clarke’s mouth opens slightly in surprise, unsure of what to say. It’s a strange observation from someone who had hardly known her before that night.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through,” Octavia continues, “But I can see that it’s really something, something that has been with you for a while.”

“I don’t...I…” she stammers, blinking back her own surprise at the girl’s observation, “What do you mean?”

“You look at the ground when you walk. You’re quiet and sometimes it’s like you disappear inside your head all together.”

She hadn’t realized she was such an open book. She swallows thickly, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed. Her arms wrap around her waist protectively, as if shielding herself from the sudden intrusive measurement. No one has ever read her like that, so openly. So accurately.

“I just made this really awkward, didn’t I?” Octavia laughs. The shower switches off and she stands, “I just mean...I understand. I know what it’s like to feel like you have to carry everything bottled up.”

“What ever happened to the less I know the better?” she’s trying to make a joke, but the memory of those words the first night she came have been floating around for a while. How dismissive Octavia had been before, reluctant to let her in on this whole thing. Now, it’s like she’s pulling Clarke in with open arms and frankly, it’s a bit confusing.

Octavia shrugs, “That was before...Look I’m not saying we’re friends. But I think we understand each other and sometimes that means a hell of a lot more. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” she says quietly, “I appreciate that.” She wants to change the subject, move the attention from herself because she’s feeling more than uncomfortable, “You and your brother really are judgmental assholes, though.”

It’s meant to be a joke, albeit, a somewhat truthful one. But from what she’s gotten to know about them, it does seem to be a significant trait.

It draws a cackle from Octavia, “You say judgmental, we say cautious. We’ve been on the receiving end of other people’s judgement for a long time so we don’t really trust when someone, especially someone like you, is just genuinely nice.”

“Someone like me?”

Octavia watches her cautiously, considering what she might say, “Privileged. And I’m not saying that to be a dick, Clarke. Just that people who come from places like you don’t usually offer help without expecting something in return. They don’t…”

She can tell Octavia is trying to be open with her, trying to choose her words carefully so that she might not offend her. Truthfully, Clarke isn’t really that offended. She’s not wrong, neither her or Bellamy have missed the mark when it came to pegging her status. She grew up in a gated neighborhood with a lavish life, always had nice things and was offered private education. For a long time, she was a spoiled kid who got off being rebellious because she knew she’d never have to suffer consequences.  She knows what she had, but things happened and her priorities changed. Her outlook changed.

“I get it,” she finally says, offering her a slight smile, “Rich people are dicks. But maybe let this be a lesson in not judging a book by it’s cover.”

“Deal.” The door to the bathroom opens, letting out a long stream of steam.

Bellamy steps out, water is dripping from his curls leaving small wet spots on his plain gray t-shirt. He smiles at the two of them, just a tiny quirk of the lips, and she relaxes. Octavia runs over to him, placing an elbow on his shoulder with an innocent smile.

“How about you treat us to some waffles, big brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you bored yet? 
> 
> i said slow burn, fam!


	6. labeling theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how hard he tries, how normal this all seems, it still sticks with him. Like labels he can't seem to peel off. 
> 
> Runaway. Dangerous. Criminal. Violent. Coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey there. remember me? happy finale day! I am v ready to cry.
> 
> Also this is un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine. I hope you still love me!
> 
> @ jess: this one's for you!

_“The person who is thus labeled an outsider may have a different view of the matter. He may not accept the rule by which he is being judged and may not regard those who judge him as either competent or legitimately entitled to do so. Hence, a second meaning of the term emerges: the rule-breaker may feel his judges are outsiders.” - Howard S. Becker_

* * *

 

No one is more surprised than he is when he finds himself in the backseat of Clarke’s lavish SUV with his knees knocking uncomfortably against Miller and Murphy -- a short game of rock, paper, scissors ended with him in the middle seat and he’s a little more than displeased by it. He’s the one that won the fucking fight, he shouldn’t lose because he happened to choose paper, okay? There’s a specific after fight routine that he is typically indulging himself in at this point involving whiskey and one-night stands, but something about it tonight didn’t sound nearly as appealing as waffles.

“Nice seats,” he comments quietly, running his hand over the creamy leather. He can almost smell the newness of it and he catches her eye in the rearview mirror. She’s a bit on edge, and he realizes quickly that she’s probably expecting some sort of comment about her status, a snip at her privilege as per usual. He has an old beat up Ford sitting in his driveway at home and he only drives it when he has to. The bus works fairly well and Miller’s car is much more reliable than his, and perhaps he could comment on it. The opportunity is well and present.

He shakes his head slightly, a promise not to go _there_ , and he swears he hears her let out a breath of relief. Admittedly, he’s said some pretty shitty things to her, but he’s actively biting his tongue. And really, he hasn't had to bite that hard. He tells himself it’s only because Octavia asked him to be nice and he wants to honor the shaky truce they agreed upon last month. But he’s also found, completely catching him off guard, that Clarke isn’t actually terrible to be around.

He hadn’t anticipated being around her much at all until his sister decided to make a habit of bringing her to the gym. Indra enjoys having her there for some odd reason and Octavia seems hellbent on teaching the girl how to punch.  Having her around has been interesting, to say the least, and he’s found her to be sarcastic, maybe a bit witty, when she crawls out of her shell. It’s hard to do some days. She’ll come in and stand in the corner while Octavia teaches, or she’ll hide in the back during Indra’s class with quiet concentration. She won’t talk much and honestly, that make’s him a little uneasy. And sometimes he finds himself doing whatever he can to bring her out of her head.

Inviting her to come to the fight tonight wasn’t so much as planned as a spontaneous reaction to feeling more than little insecure about his healing injury. He kept hearing the doctor’s voice in his head talking about permanent damage and lifelong consequences. He had spotted her sitting in the corner watching a spar and acted impulsively.

But fuck, he’s glad he did.

No sooner than the first drop of blood hit the mat was she there pulling on gloves and pressing a cloth to the steady stream coming from his nostrils. No hesitation, wiping away the mess and cracking jokes like this is just a normal Thursday night for her. Like resetting noses and wiping fucking Vaseline all over his face was casual. She stayed for the whole fight, planted right next to Miller and he’s almost certain he saw he cheer when he laid his opponent on the ground. And, as it so turns out, she’s pretty good at dealing with his bullshit, something not many people can do. Hell, Miller still struggles with it most days.

(Okay, yeah, the truce is going pretty well. Not that he’d admit it.)

Octavia guides them to some diner, one of those old ones with the neon sign and vacant parking lot because it’s almost midnight on a Thursday. She pulls in and they all climb out of the car, Bellamy adding an elbow into Murphy’s ribs when he shuts the door on his foot. The door dings loudly as they enter and it takes a moment before a waitress comes around the corner, looking a little more than flustered at having customers this late. Her eyes flick over the group and settle on him, no doubt spotting the light bruises that have begun to form underneath his eyes from the fight. He showered, but he’s almost certain he still looks a little worse for wear.

They settle into a booth and scour the menu, and he decides quickly that the chocolate chip waffles are calling his name. His stomach rumbles as he thinks about it, having grown ravenous now that the adrenaline has worn off.

“So, Blake,” Murphy nudges his elbow with his own, “I assume you’re buying?”

Bellamy scoffs, “Bold assumption. Use your own winnings, you leech.”

Murphy just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the menu with a hiss of expletives. He just shakes his head, momentarily wondering why the hell they’re even friends.

(Truthfully: John Murphy is the world’s number one asshole but he’s got a big heart and would do anything for people he cares about. Bellamy would rather die than _ever_ tell him that.)

Clarke looks between the two of them with a curious tilt of her head. "How does that work?"

He can’t tell if she’s talking about their friendship, because again, Murphy is a dick but like…his dick? Wait…

“How does what work?” is what he responds, thankfully.

She shrugs, looking around the table, “You know, the betting. The money. Who takes care of all that?”

_Oh._

“It’s a little complicated, Princess,” he says without malice, mostly because he doubts she’s really that interested and finding out more about the amateur boxing payouts. Especially when they’re not exactly legal.

She lays her menu down, placing her elbows on the table with a challenging smile, “Try me.”

He considers her for a moment. Simply put, it’s an odds game. Look at fighter stats collected over the years at the Warehouse and pick who you think will win. The higher the odds, the bigger the payout. It took a lot of work for him to get in that place, where he was the one people bet on. He’s the one they count on to make their money, but he also gets his own.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Octavia beats him to it, “People bet on who they think will win. Lincoln runs the polls with his cousin Anya. “

Clarke lifts an eyebrow at him as if to ask if that’s an accurate description. Truthfully, it’s an oversimplification of what they do, but it’s much easier that way. He nods, confirming his sister’s explanation.

She hums in response, “So people just walk up and put money down like it’s a horse race or something?”

Leave it to her to think of it as something like horse racing, one of the world’s _worst_ past times. He’s never really grasped the concept of putting an obscene amount of money down on a horse, though he expects it’s part of the upper class culture, something he will never understand.

“This is a little more exciting than watching horses run around a track, don’t you think?” he can’t help but ask. His mouth is turned upwards, a hint of a smile on his lips and she returns it easily.

“Maybe,” she responds, “At least they end up with a blanket of roses when they win instead of a broken nose.”

Ah, there it is. Shell-less Clarke Griffin.

“Aw, Blake, do you want a blanket of roses?” Miller teases, reaching up to pinch at his cheeks. Bellamy swats his hand away with a glare.

“The broken nose was a fluke,” he grumbles, reaching up absently to touch at the tender flesh. He’s still a little pissed about it, mostly at himself. He hadn’t dodged quick enough, instead taunting his opponent and leaving the door open for a hit. A rookie mistake, one he’s sure Indra is going to rip his ass for the moment she finds out about it. And she will find out about it. From who, well, between Miller and Octavia it’s whoever gets to her first. They get an unhealthy amount of joy from watching the woman yell at him.

“Yeah?” Clarke challenges, leaning into the table with a mischievous glint in her eye, “How about the eye?”

“You know what,” he retorts with a huff, “You can buy your own breakfast.”

She laughs, head thrown back against the torn vinyl of the booth, and it's here that he realizes that they've crossed into different territory. She's comfortable enough to tease him, he’s comfortable enough to take it. His sister is grinning wildly, a rare display from her in public. Even Murphy seems to get a kick out of it and he's completely sober.

She falls into easy conversation with Octavia, talking excitedly about something as her hands gesture wildly. He wonders, briefly, if this is going to be a common occurrence. If she’s sliding into his life, his sister’s life, for good or if it’s all just temporary. He finds that to be what deters him the most about her -- she’s so different from them. Manicured and poised while he and Octavia were always seen as feral children, runaways who just so happened to end up in the right place at the right time. No matter how hard he tries, how normal all this seems, it still sticks with him. Like labels he just can’t seem to peel off.

_Runaway. Dangerous. Criminal. Violent. Coward._

“And what about you?”

His head snaps up to see the waitress tapping her pen on the order pad impatiently. He hadn’t even heard her approach and momentarily forgets what he had decided on. He picks up the menu in an awkward panic and sputters out something about blueberry waffles.

_Damn it, Blake. Chocolate chip!_

“Real smooth,” Miller pats him on the shoulder.

The conversation turns idle – Murphy talks about some girl that tried to pick pocket him the other day and proceeds to call her his ‘soulmate’. Miller mentions something to Clarke about a video game he’s played recently while Octavia seems distracted by her phone, typing a novel to someone with a permanent crease between her brows.

“You okay?” Clarke asks her, noticing the same. Octavia gives a half-hearted smile.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she says, tucking her phone away, “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”

She disappears quickly, and Bellamy has half a mind to follow her. Something is off, but he also knows how much she hates when he ‘hovers’ so he leans into the booth and keeps a hand firmly wrapped around his glass of water.

“Think we got time for a smoke?” Miller asks and when Murphy grunts, they remove themselves from the booth as well.

Clarke drums her fingers on the table awkwardly, the sudden silence strange as they stare at each other across from the table. She opens her mouth to say something but closes it just as quick.

He smirks, “Cat got your tongue, Princess?”

She rolls her eyes, “I was going to compliment you but changed my mind. Your ego doesn’t need any more strokes.”

He’s grinning now, the awkwardness fading just as quickly as it came, “Aw, Griffin, you don’t have to tell me how good looking I am. I already know.”

 _That’s not a joke, you’re flirting with her you fucking prick,_ he silently scolds himself. He’s been accidentally crossing that line all night. Not on a purpose. Hell, he doesn’t realize what he’s saying until it comes out of his mouth and it’s not like he can take it back.

She makes a choking noise, leaning down in her seat as though she can’t breathe. He instinctively reaches across, “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just,” she pants, “Your head. It’s so big it’s suffocating me.”

She bursts into laughter as he glowers at her, but he feels his lip start to twitch. He leans back, crossing his arms with a slight shake of his head, “You’re ridiculous.”

She rests her chin on her hand with a soft smile, “You walked into it.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Anyways,” she stresses, “I was just going to say you’re really good at the whole fighting thing.”

Now he does smile, “I think so too.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” she groans.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, “Continue. I’ll stop.”

She hesitates for a moment, before starting to fiddle with the rolled silverware in front of her, “I, uh, don’t know much about boxing or whatever. But I feel like you’re abnormally good? And you have a great teacher and coach…”

He waits for her to finish. He’s somewhat enjoying her struggle to compliment him, but she seems to be unsure of herself. Like what she’s going to say is going to suddenly piss him off. Is that how she reads him?

“Have you ever thought about trying to do this professionally?”

He blinks back his surprise. That is not where he expected the conversation to turn. He swallows thickly, because, yeah, he thinks about it a lot. What would it be like to make a living this way? Not just fighting to win a gamble, but fighting because he’s good at it. It’s a pipe dream, though a shitty one, and at the end of the day, it can’t be anything more.

So he shrugs, “Not really.”

“How come?” and of course she’s going to push it. She’s stubborn like that, even in the short amount of time he’s known her, he can say without a doubt she is the most stubborn person he’s ever met. Beyond even Octavia, which is no small feat.

“I’m just some guy from the middle of nowhere,” and it’s the most honest answer he can give her at this point, “It’s unrealistic.”

She studies him, teeth scrapping at her bottom lip and his eyes land on the small mark just above her upper one. Something passes between them – it’s fleeting but electric all the same and he’s beyond grateful that his sister decides to make an appearance.

“You good, O?” he redirects his attention. The moment is gone and things fall back into a more comfortable normalcy.

Their food comes out and little conversation happens as they dig in. A small fight happens when Murphy tries to sneak a piece of bacon from Octavia’s plate and she vaguely threatens to stab him with her fork. Bellamy tries not to sulk over his accidental choice of the blueberry variety but as he chews on the boring flavor, Clarke is practically moaning as she devours her own chocolate chip ones. The moan is _definitely_ not distracting him.

“Food not good?” O asks shoveling a pile of eggs in her mouth.

He sighs, “I meant to order chocolate chip but panicked.”

“You can have some of mine,” Clarke tells him, leaning back against the booth with a hand on her stomach, “I’m so full I want to die.”

“That’s okay,” he responds half-heartedly because he really does want them. She just pushes her place further towards him and he doesn’t argue. The moment the chocolate melts into his mouth he lets out his own satisfied moan.

“God, I’m an idiot,” he concedes. He’s so into the food he doesn’t even mind when the table all enthusiastically agrees with the sentiment.

Once the table is nothing but empty plates, he’s ready to crawl into bed and he can tell everyone else is too. Octavia has her head on Clarke’s shoulder. Miller has his head resting on his hand and Murphy is rubbing his stomach soothingly like a prospective mother.

This was a good call.

“Can I get you all anything else?” the waitress stops by and they all groan in response, “One check or separate.”

He sighs, already resigned to his fate, “One.”

“I can get mine,” Clarke offers, reaching into her purse for some cash.

He’s too sleepy to fight with her, “You can get the tip.”

They slide from the booth and she throws a ten dollar bill on the table before following the others out. Murphy stays behind with him as he approaches the old cash register.

He hands the bill over to the waitress as Murphy tries to grab a toothpick. The machine must break, because Murphy scowls, trying to turn the little knob to dispense the small piece of wood, before he huffs and just pulls the lid off and sticks his hands in the thing.

“31 dollars and 72 cents,” the waitress smiles and he pulls two twenties from his wallet. She types it in the cash register and collects his change, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, “Heard you did good tonight.”

That catches him off guard, “What?”

She hands him his change with a shrug, “Not much happens around here. Word gets out. Heard you kicked ass.”

“Oh,” is all he can think to say, “Uh, thanks.”

She leans forward and he swears she pushes her chest out a bit. He swallows and tries to keep his eyes firmly on hers. But then she gives him a wicked smile, “I’m sure you’re sore. I’m in school for massage therapy. You know, if you need a little post fight treatment.”

Well, fuck. That’s definitely not where he expected the night to go. He feels a slight twitch in his lower region. She’s not bad to look at. Tall, athletic, and pretty. Any other night he would jump at the chance. But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to go for it.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says smoothly, “Maybe another time.”

She leans up, pulling his receipt from the machine and scribbling something on the bottom, “In case you change your mind.”

He gives her a nod and walks out, shoving the receipt into his pocket. Murphy is guffawing next to him, holding his abdomen as the door dings closed once they get outside. The others are standing around Clarke’s car, passing a cigarette around and laughing about something.

“You good, man?” Miller questions.

“Leave it to Blake to still manage to pick up a chick at a hole in the wall diner on a random Thursday night,” Murphy responds.

Bellamy flips him off, groaning when he sees the patronizing look his sister seems to be giving him. She’s not exactly fond of his tendencies, having lectured him on a more than a few occasions about his lack of empathy for the people he brings home.

“You are going to seriously damage someone someday if you keep this up!” was her most recent outburst. He had hid behind his menu when he took her out to dinner once he realized one of his former, erm, people had been sitting two tables behind them. It’s not like he ever brings someone home under the guise that he’s going to want _more._ He’s pretty fucking clear about his intentions every time, though he’s sure sometimes people want to believe that they’ll be the one to change it. But little do they know, they’re not really the problem.

“What?” he snaps as they all watch him expectantly, “I turned her down.”

Miller whistles, “Damn, hell must have gotten a little colder.”

“Fuck you.”

“Been there done that,” he smiles. Bellamy really fucking hates him, sometimes.

“Do I need to take you all home or back to the warehouse?” Clarke asks, thankfully changing the subject.

“We can take the bus back, it’s not big deal,” he offers weakly.

She rolls her eyes, “Just give me your address.”

They all climb in the car, stuffed full and exhaustion kicking in. The radio is turned down low, a unique song playing as the breeze flows through cracked windows. For an early November night, it’s almost spring like. Warm and somewhat humid, but perfect for a late night drive. Miller falls asleep against the door almost instantly, while Murphy lays his head on his shoulder – “I paid for your food, _you_ can sit in the middle.” The drive is long, but comfortable, and by the time they reach the shared home, he and Clarke are the only one’s awake.

She puts the car in park and looks back with a slight grin, “Need help carrying your children to bed?”

He pinches Murphy under the arm, causing him to jerk up with a loud, “Fuck!”

He winks at Clarke and she tries to hide her laugh behind her fingers as Murphy glares at them. They stumble into the driveway and he stops by Clarke’s window as the other two sleepily try to get the door open.

“Thanks for the food,” she tells him.

He scoffs, “You tipped the waiter enough to cover yours and more.”

“I get weird when people buy me things.”

“In that case, I’ll never buy you food again,” he jokes.

“You think we’ll all do this again?” she asks, and she sounds almost hopeful. It throws him off.

He wants to say no. That this was something to appease his sister and most certainly not the start of a habit. But his gut tells him that he’s wrong. So instead he says, “Maybe.”

And before he can stop himself, he thinks out loud, “You plan on showing up at all the fights?”

“Someone has to patch you up,” she nudges his chest with her elbow.

He shoves his hands in his pocket, “I guess you’re okay at it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Octavia stirs from behind her and they both look to see her curl up in the passenger seat. “You okay getting home from here?”

She nods, “Trusty GPS gives way better directions than she does.”

He snorts, “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“I’ll get her home in one piece, don’t worry big brother,” she smiles and something strange turns in his stomach as she echo’s Octavia’s nickname for him. It sounds more than strange rolling off her tongue. He takes a step back.

“Let me know when you make it, yeah?”

“Of course.” Clarke sticks her hand out of the window with one final wave as she pulls from the driveway and he finally shuffles to bed.

Exhaustion seeps from every inch of him but when he lays down, he can’t fall asleep. He thinks about what she said about going pro, about being good enough to do it. It’s not the first time someone has mentioned it but it’s been awhile since he’s thought about it. Really thought about it, and just like every time before, he finds himself growing angry that he can’t fucking do it. In a better life, one where he didn’t have a record threatening to ruin everything he’s built, a past that he’s been desperately running from for years, he would be something. He would be more than just Bellamy Blake, delinquent runaway. He could be better.

But this is reality.

So much for sleeping. He tosses the blanket to the side and digs through the pocket of his jeans. He smoothes out the crinkled receipt and picks up his phone. She answers on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he greets quietly, “Your offer still stand?”

* * *

 

_There’s a distant echo of sirens and Bellamy knows he should run. He should just leave all the junk he has sitting out on the corner and take off. But he thinks about how pissed Shumway would be if he lost all this merchandise because he was a coward and ran. So he starts trying to shove each item into the back of the old hatchback, cd’s clack against one another as he tosses them in and the small 22 inch television wobbles in his arms. The siren’s grow louder. Louder._

_He’s surrounded before he can even close the door, pushed against the old rusty metal of car and arms twisted behind his back. He thinks the officers are talking to him, but he can’t hear anything over the ringing panic in his ears. He thinks about his sister. Who’s going to feed her tonight if they arrest him? And his mom? What is she going to do when she comes home and see’s he’s not there?_

_He’s pushed into the back of the car, his gangly fourteen-year-old frame scrunched behind the driver’s seat. The officer is tall and a bit chubby, his seat is pushed back so far Bellamy’s knees are pushed into the fake leather. The officer is still talking, but this time into the radio attached at his collar. When he looks out the window, the items he had thrown into the back of the car are being pulled out and photographed and he closes his eyes. There is at least a thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise there._

_Stolen merch. In a stolen car. Driven by a kid without even a permit._

_He tries to form a plan as they drive to the station. Ask for Shumway. Try to figure it out. Promise to double the money he lost. He’ll do the runs if he has to. He has to get out of this._

_When they arrive at the station, the cop pulls him out of the car by the elbow and guides him in, dropping him in a chair attached so an 80’s style desk. The air smells like stale sweat and coffee, and he can feel panic bubbling in his throat._

_“Hey,” he calls to the officer perched at the desk across from him. He tries to sound tough, tries not to let his anxiety and fear overcome him, “Shumway. I want to talk to Shumway.”_

_The officer blinks at him before chuckling to himself and turning back to his paperwork. He’s about to call out again but his vision is blocked by the arresting officer._

_“What’s your name, kid?”_

_“Shumway,” Bellamy repeats, “Give me Detective Shumway.”_

_“Not really in any position to make demands, are you?” the office growls, crossing his arms in that typical intimidating manner. An exertion of power and control._

_But desperation is so much stronger. Bellamy pushes himself up and raises his voice, “Shumway!”_

_There’s a scuffle and suddenly they pounce, and his cheek his throbbing as it’s pressed against the old carpet. He feels a knee in his back and thrashes against it. He knows he should just be still, should just let them win the fight and try to figure something else out. Maybe if he could just call McCreary, he’d know what to do. He could tell him how to proceed because, fuck, he doesn’t know what he’s doing._

_But then he hears him, “What the hell is going on?”_

_The room quiets. Papers flutter to the floor and Bellamy looks up from his place on the ground to see Shumway, badge shining from where it’s pinned to his belt. He’s all poise and authority here, the picture of a good detective who serves justice on a silver platter. Except, you know, when he’s creating a black market of merchandise for profit and using kids to do it._

_“This kid was hollering for you,” the knee belongs to this voice, “Throwing a damn fit.”_

_A pair of expensive leather shoes steps into his vision, before knees crack and Shumway is crouching just above his head. He narrows his eyes at Bellamy, a gesture that may appear to be just one of curiosity, but Bellamy knows is lividity. He’s pissed. He stands without a word, turning back to his comrades._

_“Take the report and put him in holding,” he says without so much as a glance back, filing into his office and shutting the door with an obnoxious click._

_He feels himself being pulled up by his arms, someone hissing into his ear, “Try that shit again, kid, and we’ll have to use force.”_

_What the fuck do you call what you just did? He wants to respond. But he presses his lips together instead, not daring to make things any worse._

_He’s thrown in a small cell, with cracking concrete walls and a solitary wooden bench. The bars are cool against his fingers as he flexes them and he can still feel the imprint of cuffs on his bony wrists. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t supposed to be his life. By now, they must have called his mom. He had given them her information, mostly because he knew that she’d probably been pacing the living room when he didn’t come home from school to watch O so she could go to work. He can only imagine what’s she’s feeling knowing her son is in fucking jail._

Detained, _they prefer to call it. Juveniles can’t go to jail_

_He scoffs aloud at the thought. They won’t call it what it is, but they had no problem man handling him, did they?_

_He’s so lost in his frustration, his overwhelming disappointment in himself, that he doesn’t hear as someone approaches._

_“You got a lot of nerve, you know that?” Shumway stands just outside the cell, hands resting on his utility belt, uncomfortably close to the gun holstered on his left hip._

_“I’m sorry,” Bellamy apologizes, “They came out of nowhere, I was just trying to do my assignment.”_

_“Your assignment was to sell without getting caught,” the man sneers, “And not only did you get caught, but you had the expensive stuff with you, including the car.”_

_Bellamy’s head drops to the bars with a soft thunk, “I know. I know I fucked up, but please…my mom, she needs me. My sister…”_

_“There’s nothing I can do, kid,” Shumway tells him coldly, “You’re in deep shit, they’ve got you for assault and resisting arrest on top of everything else.”_

_“They assaulted me!” he snaps. How could they do that? He didn’t do anything? He was just trying to ask for help. They tackled him!_

_Shumway shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line, “Doesn’t matter.”_

_He starts to walk away, leaving him alone in the cold cell despite having been the one to lead him here. “Hey!” he shouts._

_Shumway stops but doesn’t turn._

_He’s desperate. Afraid. He’s just a kid._

_“I can tell them everything, you know!” he threatens stupidly, “Get me out of this or I’ll tell them everything.”_

_Before he can even blink, Shumway is in front of him again and something warm presses underneath his chin. Bellamy freezes, hands gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles are nearly white. He can feel the man’s breath on his nose as he hisses, “Trust me, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”_

_He doesn’t need to ask what that means, the gun against his skin is enough to explain._

_“Understand?” Shumway smiles sadistically, almost entertained by his fear. Bellamy nods and let’s out the breath he had been holding as the gun is holstered. He’s gone in an instant and it’s then that the teenager, terrified and alone, begins to cry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all have been amazing for sticking around and loving on this fic. All your amazing comments have me feeling emo because they're just so dang nice. 
> 
> Are we cool with character building? World building? Because that's what I'm doing and I hope that's okay?
> 
>  
> 
> strap in, though, we're in it for a long ride!


	7. conflict management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This life isn’t a choice, and you know that,” he feels the familiar anger rising, like being locked in a cage and watching things beyond his control unfold. Indra says nothing, just purses her lips and Clarke regards him with wary curiosity, avoiding her gaze, but he can see the gears turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey. sorry about the wait. my friend let me use their computer and i'm pretending to do something while actually posting this chapter. it's scarcely edited, but hey it's something! 
> 
> this one goes out to iva! thank you for your constant support on this fic. you're a real one <3

_“We’re built of contradictions, all of us. It’s those opposing forces that give us strength, like an arch, each block pressing the next. Give me a man whose parts are all aligned in agreement and I’ll show you madness. We walk a narrow path, insanity to each side. A man without contradictions to balance him will soon veer off.” –_ Mark Lawrence

* * *

 

He hardly remembers a time where he wasn’t fighting. Not really. His childhood was mostly a blur, a few short memories that are hard to piece together anymore. There wasn’t much to it. No learning how to ride a bike. No sports. No hide and seek with the neighborhood kids. He isn’t even sure he lived a life before Octavia was born. Before his mom plopped this little bundle in his lap and told him, “Your sister, your responsibility.”

He never asked what she meant when she said it. He just took it to mean exactly that. He needed to take care of her. Make sure she’s okay. It was him. So, when the time came that he could do that, he did. When anyone said anything about his family, he would shut them up. When he needed to defend himself, because if someone hurt him, who would protect his family, he would fight. It’s all he’s known for so long.

“Your left side is still weak.”

He rubs his ribs, throbbing from the impact of Lincoln’s punch, “Fuck you. You’re the only person who knows that.”

Lincoln only smirks. The man has been in his life as long as Indra, having been raised by the woman since he was a boy. The two found each other by chance, Indra having lost her family to civil war in her native home and Lincoln having been an orphan on the street. He wandered into this warehouse the day Indra bought it and, well, the rest is history.

“Well, if you ever want to stop fighting college punks and move on to professionals, they’ll be able to see it too,” he retorts, tapping his gloves together telling Bellamy to continue. He jabs and Lincoln dodges swiftly, pulling them into a 180. He hooks and misses and Lincoln takes the opening to punch him in the side again.

“Rookie mistake,” he grins and Bellamy drops his hands, signaling for a water break. They walk to the side of the ring and grab their water. It’s still early, so the gym is quiet except for the occasional sound of Indra’s frustrated groans as she goes over the bills in her office. It’s been a while since he and Lincoln have been able to train together like this, the older man still settling in after returning from his stint away.

“I didn’t get to train with the Mayweather’s of the world, so sorry if I’m not up to par with you anymore,” Bellamy jokes, though the statement is somewhat serious. He tries not to ask about it anymore, mostly because Lincoln shrugs his shoulders and just makes some general statement of his preference for anonymity, but it’s something he still doesn’t understand.

Lincoln is a hell of a fighter. One of the best he’s ever seen, even in the professional world. He’s quick and calculating and had been on his way to the top when he decided to walk away. No one ever really understood why. He was in the running for the heavyweight belt, only two fights from the reigning champ and he quit. Just like that. Broke contracts, lost money. He came home with the same smile on his face, though, picking up a lot of the stress Indra had been carrying at the gym. He teaches classes now, mostly, and still helps out with books at the arena. His old life, one that, if Bellamy is being completely honest, he doesn’t understand the appeal of coming back to.

“You could beat half those guys to a pulp,” Lincoln responds, “They might be well trained, but they get too cocky when they fight and let their guards down.”

He smiles despite himself, “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, that’s why you haven’t beat me yet.”

“You know, it’s almost like you came back just to beat up poor scrubs like me.” Their conversations always lead to this. Bellamy tip-toes around the subject, always letting his curiosity get the best of him but never actually getting his hopes up that Lincoln might give his actual reason for leaving the professional scene. This time is no different. Hell, he’s hardly thinking about much when he says it, mostly just that he needs to stop leaving his left side open, when Lincoln sighs.

“I came back because I didn’t want to beat anyone up at all.”

He chokes on his water, looking at the man while he looks at the wall, brows furrowed in concentration like he’s choosing his words carefully, “I never liked fighting. Not really. It gave me something to do though, and I think the technique around it is fascinating. But I don’t enjoy hurting people. That’s all my dad did to my mom. Hurt her. And the people on the street. They hurt each other. And I never wanted that.”

Bellamy realizes this may be the first time he’s ever said it aloud, and he doesn’t want to be the one to stop it. He listens in quiet surprise.

“I went pro because it’s money. I don’t have a degree or many other skills, so why wouldn’t I? But I realized I was beating the shit out of people for money, a lot of money, and it felt almost dirty to me. I was sitting in a penthouse in New York because I knocked some guy out for national television. I shouldn’t be rewarded for violence or anger. What kind of person did that make me?”

There are flashes as Lincoln talks and he feels something unsettling in the pit of his stomach. He quit because he thought he was fucked up for doing it for money. And it makes him think of his own reasons for fighting. Maybe because it’s all he’s ever done. All he knows how to do, but there is a part of him that enjoys it. He enjoys the feeling he gets when he knocks someone down. When he draws blood. It’s a release of so much, the past, the anger. And for the longest time he’s felt lucky to be paid for something like that. To go to the arena and leave with a wad of cash for essentially doing something he enjoys.

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out and Lincoln leans up, seemingly oblivious to the internal conflict he’s just sent him into. He’s trying to make sense of it, but it’s like he’s a hitting a block. He doesn’t fight simply because it’s fun, right? He fights because he has to. He has to support himself. His sister. He has to keep them safe.

“Are we ever going to do this at a decent hour?”

He’s broken from his escalating spiral into the abyss and he’s grateful for the distraction because he can’t go there. He doesn’t want to. Lincoln waves at the two new occupants, a familiar sight of brunette and blonde now days, and he hops down from the wing, more than happy to move away from this serious turn of events.

“You should be used to this by now, Octavia doesn’t sleep in past 7:30, ever.” He says trying to shake off the conversation. Octavia flips him off before skipping away, stopping briefly to chat with Lincoln before heading into Indra’s office to greet her. It’s hard to feel unnatural around Clarke anymore. She’s been such a constant over the past couple months, at this point, he even finds himself confused when his sister goes anywhere without her.

And he’s definitely been nicer, so.

“Yeah, it’s a source of conflict between us,” Clarke grumbles. She lifts a thermos to her mouth, no doubt filled with the shit she calls coffee (it’s mostly just creamer and sugar, he really doesn’t even think it falls under the same category as coffee). She makes a satisfied sound and gives him a once over.

“Glad to see that hit you took Thursday wasn’t as bad as I thought,” she muses. His fight Thursday was nothing spectacular, but his opponent definitely clocked him a couple good times, splitting his lip. The swelling was a bit excessive and Clarke had been certain he was going to have to ice it for a few days before the swelling went down. But it’s mostly back to normal with just small cut, hardly noticeable unless you know it’s there.

“You were just overreacting, per usual.”

“I do not overreact.”

He clears his throat, pulling out his best impression of her, “’Oh my God, you’re going to have to be x-rayed again, would you protect your fucking face you shit-head!’”

She rolls her eyes, “Fine. Next time I’ll just let you bleed out. See if I care!”

“I picked up an extra fight this week, so you might get the chance.”

She throws her free hand in the air in exasperation, leaving him with a string of expletives as she goes to the locker room to change. He tries not to think about how natural it feels to be around her, how he’s grateful to come into his corner and see her there with a towel or ice pack. It seems strange to have gone so quickly from mutual disdain to respect but if there’s one thing he’s learned about Clarke Griffin it’s that she’s really fucking hard to dislike.

Even Murphy raves about her and Murphy hates everyone. 

He goes back to continue his exercise regime, stopping occasionally to shout at Octavia for her form. She’s been training more in the ring, usually sparring with Indra or Harper, but today she has an opponent he doesn’t recognize. She’s a natural in the ring, concentrated and smooth in her movements. She’s nimble, faster than her opponent and she watches the way she calculates each movement. It reminds him a lot of the way Lincoln fights.

The thought stops him in his tracks.

He goes over to the side of the ring where Clarke and Indra are watching, Indra shouting a few coaching tips here and there, and watches closer. She’s too good. How has he never noticed? He tries not to let his mind run away from him, a fear he didn’t even realize he had until now. The last thing he ever wanted was for Octavia to fight. He’s spent so long trying to protect her from that, to give her more opportunity. TO give her a life where she doesn’t have to. But he can see the spark in her eye, the enjoyment she’s getting just from this spar and it scares him.

He shouldn’t ask, but he does.

“Has she been training more?” he asks Indra. The woman turns and he’s never seen her hesitate, but she does. Just a subtle flick of her eyes between him and the ongoing fight. It tells him all he needs to know.

“She’s not.” he growls.

“Bellamy,” Clarke cautions, and it only propels him further.

“Absolutely not. She’s not fighting.”

“She asked, Bellamy,” Indra responds sternly. He hates that it feels like a punch to the gut.

He and Indra have always been on the same team when it comes to his sister. Protect her. Give her the life she deserves. Make sure she doesn’t have to struggle like he did. Like Lincoln did. Like Indra did. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Never has.

“She’s 18 now, she can make her own decisions.”

“Like hell,” he snaps back. He feels a hand on his chest, it’s small but familiar in a way that makes him feel something strange. Clarke stands between him and his surrogate parent, watching him like he might try to do something rash.

And it pisses him the fuck off.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he bites and maybe it would have deterred her before, but she’s more than comfortable now. So she pushes gently on his chest as if to tell him to back off.

“And you said I’m the one that overreacts.”

He ignores her.

“We agreed she wouldn’t be part of that life! YOU agreed!”

“When she was a child. Bellamy, what did you expect when she came here every day? When she watches you and everyone she’s around do this? That it might not pique her interest one day?”

“This life isn’t a choice, and you know that,” he feels the familiar anger rising, like being locked in a cage and watching things beyond his control unfold. Indra says nothing, just purses her lips and Clarke regards him with wary curiosity, avoiding her gaze, but he can see the gears turning.

“What’s going on?”

He hadn’t noticed the that the fight had stopped and eyes were on them. Octavia dangles her arms over the rope, looking between them in concern. She has some nerve.

“You know what’s going on. You’re fighting, O?”

She narrows her eyes at him, “I’m sorry, are you actually pissed about this?”

“Of course I am! You have so many better things you could be doing and you decide to get involved in this instead? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? Are you kidding?!” she jumps down from the ring so she’s eye level with him. Despite being almost a head shorter, she pushes herself into his space, “It’s okay for you to do it, but not me?”

“Yes,” he replies stupidly, “Because this is how it’s always been.”

“Do you even hear yourself? You’re acting like a crazy person!”

“You aren’t fighting, O. And I will do everything in my power to make sure of it.”

It hangs in the air, echoing throughout the gym and he sees the words hit her, like a blunt punch to the face. She recoils slightly, eyes wide like she can’t believe he’s gone this far. But she has never understood the lengths he’s gone to keep her safe. That he will continue to go through. And if it means stepping in even when she doesn’t want him to, that’s what he’ll do.

She backs away, ripping off her gloves and throwing them on the ground, “We’ll see about that, won’t we.”

She storms into the back and he can feel the eyes on him. He turns back to Indra, “I thought I could trust you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Right now, he just needs to get as far away from this place as possible.

* * *

_“Blake!”_

_Bellamy jolts awake at the sound of his name, hopping down from his bunk immediately as the light flips on. The other occupants groan, cursing the brightness illuminating the windowless cell. He’s not sure what time it is, could be late afternoon. It’s hard to tell anymore, but he assumes it’s early._

_“Come with me.” The guard waits for him to slip on his detention center issues boots, albeit tapping his foot impatiently._

_He shuffles out, thinking maybe Bates had told on him for sneaking rations the other day and trying to figure out what day it is so he knows how long he might be in solitary. Days don’t count over weekends, so any time you’re put in solitary (which, theoretically isn’t supposed to exist in Juvenile detention, but here we are) you better hope it isn’t on a weekend. Or you’re there double the time. Bellamy doesn’t think it’s too bad. If anything, you get a little bit of peace and quiet and some of the guard will sneak books to the inmates. He can survive a couple of days. He’s done it before._

_Except the guard turns him a different way from the path he’s used to, and instead he begins to see something similar to natural light. He tries not to get his hopes up. Until the guard sits him down at the intake room and disappears. He couldn’t be getting out already? From what he last heard from his mom, he still had another month or so. He’s been counting down the days, like a mantra in his head._

_Something is dropped at his feet and he sees the clothes, so familiar yet a distant memory, sitting on the ground._

_“Your mom’s here to pick you up,” the guard confirms, and with that walks him to the changing room. His hands are trembling as he pulls on the jeans, too tight now for his larger body. He had been scrawnier when he came in, all skin and bones but when you have nothing but time, you fill it with random shit like pushups. And while the food is less than stellar, three meals a day makes a difference._

_He exits, tossing his issued uniform into the hamper and follows the guard out. OUT. He’s actually out. He spots his sister first, her legs swinging excitedly over the plastic chair she sits in. Her hair is longer, ponytail swinging across her lower back, and she has a ribbon in her hair._

_“Bellamy!” she yells, running towards him at full force. She was too young for visitation, his mom was the only one he’d seen in the year he’d been here. She couldn’t come often, the detention center was almost an hour away by train, but she came as much as she could._

_He scoops Octavia into his arms, squeezing her tightly as she squeals in delight. He catches a glimpse of his mom over her shoulder, talking to a man he doesn’t recognize. He’s not in uniform, so he doesn’t work here. She must have just met him in passing. But then he leans down and kisses her and something drops in his stomach._

_He puts Octavia down, though she remains clinging to his shirt, and hugs his mom. She sniffles into his shoulder, “I missed you so much.”_

_He knows things have been hard since he’s been gone. She hasn’t said anything, but he can see all the new lines on her forehead, the stress she carries with her everywhere it goes. But when she pulls back, placing her hand on his cheek and smiling at him, he doesn’t see it._

_He nods at the man standing a few feet behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, “Who’s he?”_

_She smiles wider, waving the man over. She takes his hand, “This is Trey.”_

_“Nice to meet you,” Trey says, offering his hand to shake. Bellamy takes it warily, already apprehensive of this stranger._

_“He’s been taking care of us, baby,” his mom says sweetly._

_He’s been here long enough to sense when something isn’t right. When someone is more than they appear and he can see it with this man, Trey. His eyes are guarded, his mustached smile too fake. But he tries to shake it off because this is the first time he’s seen his mom smile like this in years. So he smiles back._

_“Let’s go home.”_

* * *

 

As usual, he’s the one that goes to her first. He should probably give her more than a day to cool off, but he hardly slept last night. She has to know why. Explain why he’s so bent out of shape over this. That he isn’t protective for the hell of it. There’s a reason. There will always be a reason.

Miller tried to talk him out of it. Told him he was acting like a crazy person. Maybe he is. She’s an adult now, technically. But hell, she’ll always be his little sister. The one constant in his life and he can’t just let her put herself in danger.

He’s banging on the dorm room door before he can stop himself.  The door opens, but it isn’t Octavia. Of course it isn’t. It’s Clarke.

“Where’s O?”

“You really are persistent,” she comments, swinging the door open so he can enter. He moves in, noticing Octavia’s disappointingly empty bed. “As you can see, she’s not here.”

“Would you have let me in if she was?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Probably not.”

“I tried calling her.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. She’s not going to answer.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he sits on his sisters’ bed, glancing around at the neat place. It surprises him, actually, how put together the tiny space is. Octavia has always been a slob, leaving chaos wherever she goes. Clarke leans on the desk across from him, arms folded over her chest.

“Well, that’s nothing new.” He glares, not taking the joke, and she sighs, “I don’t know anything about you all aside from what Octavia’s shared.”

He tries to ignore the flare of panic that rises. Octavia wouldn’t have told her anything. Right? It’s too much. Too personal. And Clarke Griffin of all people shouldn’t be privy to it. She wouldn’t understand.

“Which is?”

“Basically nothing.”

He raises an eyebrown and she smirks, “Well, except that you’re an overprotective dick but I had that one figured out within seconds of meeting you.”

“Yeah, well, my sister, my responsibility.”

It comes out before he can stop it. Automatic. Like it has been what feels like his entire life. He stands up, wiping his hands on his pants absently and heading for the door.

“She’s not a kid anymore, Bellamy,” Clarke says as he turns, “I know it doesn’t automatically make the need to protect her go away, but it’s worth realizing. Because like it or not, she’s going to do what she wants. I’ve known her for, what, a couple of months, and I already know that.”

He wants to laugh because it’s true. She’s never listened and God, her teenage years were the fucking worst. But this is different. Unexplainable to someone like her.

“Try all you want, Princess,” he reaches for the door, “You’ll never figure us out. Might as well stop trying.”

“Believe me, I’ve got too much shit going on to try to unravel the mystery of the fucking Blake family,” she snaps as he leaves, but there isn’t much bite behind. Just a simple statement.

It’s dangerous mystery to unravel, he thinks. He hopes no one ever does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways, hope it won't be another three months before i update. hope you still like this fic. hope you like of character background lmao because that's what it is. comments are always appreciated. thank you to everyone for being so amazing. i appreciate you more than you know! 
> 
> come hang on [tumblr!](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


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